


Pocket Full

by lemon_meringue



Series: the Collar Full collection [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, College Student Peter Parker, Coming Untouched, Crying During Sex, Daddy Kink, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Double Penetration, Established Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Fluff, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Pet Names, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Sounding, Sub Peter Parker, Subspace, Threesome - M/M/M, Vibrators, its not huge tho, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2019-11-29 06:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: previously titled "Drabbles For Collar Full". they're drabbles (if 8-11k per chapter is a "drabble") that occur in the au of my oneshot "Collar Full". It's just more pwp (that accidentally grew a little bit of plot oops)Peter cannot believe this is his life now. He would pinch himself, but honestly, if this is a dream, he doesn't really want to wake up.(gang idk if anyone would have any but I'd be down for prompts for this!!)





	1. Blame the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people! I really liked my one shot Collar Full and then a couple people encouraged me to add more-- so it ended up taking me about two minutes to decide to continue with this snazzy new drabbles collection! If you haven't read the first one shot, this will probably still make sense? most likely
> 
> Right now this whole work is (going to be) basically just probably-chronologically ordered drabbles of pwp that occur in the Collar Full au, but I’m also working on maybe potentially writing a real actual fic (as in,,,, porn /with/ plot) too, sooooo we’ll see where that ends up. 
> 
> I’ll add individual descriptions and notes/warnings for all these drabbles, and like it says in the summary, I am open to prompts (assuming anyone has any). That said, this is hella unbeta’d, I am a Train Wreck, and thanks so much for reading!! Hope you enjoy this straight up filth, babes <3
> 
> Summary: Peter experiences something new  
> notes/warnings specifically: rimming, subspace + mentions of discussing subspace (idk who all picked this up from the original fic but Peter goes into subspace. The idea Steve and Tony have for how to help him w/ his anxiety? That bit where Peter surrenders to them completely in order to relax? That’s subspace), Death By Fluffy Aftercare

_“Please let us keep you,” he finishes. Peter smirks, somehow, and thinks maybe he nodded his head but he’s not sure. The pillow is so soft, and he’s rarely felt as safe and good and_ loved _as he does right now._

 

_Loved?_

 

_Hm._

 

_Interesting, he thinks. He does feel loved. With Steve and Tony, lying between them. Safe and good and loved._

 

_He’ll have to look into that._

 

_So he smiles and nuzzles into the pillows, one hand resting over Tony’s grip on his waist, the other lacing fingers with Steve in front of him._

 

_“Ok.”_

 

That was two months ago.

 

That first night, when Peter had lost his virginity to his apartment neighbors, when Peter had slept with the very married Stark-Rogers couple, when they’d taken turns fucking him and they’d all passed out in bed together, and Steve had asked that question, and Peter had answered him:

 

Two months ago. Eight weeks (slightly less than seven, actually) ago.

 

And since then, things had been… good. More than good. Really, really, really good. Peter started going out to dinner with Steve and Tony more often. Multiple nights a week. And he’d spent an abundance of time in their apartment (and at their house, later, because a month after that first night, their home had finally been completed. It’s dumbfoundingly impressive.) with them, spending time together. Making jokes, having long conversations, cooking together, watching movies, playing board games that Tony always wins (for some goddamn reason Peter can’t beat the man at Sorry. It’s not even a skill game!), enjoying each other’s company.

 

Getting fucked into the mattress.

 

Casual things.

 

To Peter’s delight, Tony had decided to teach him more about kissing. Which, holy shit. Tony is an incredible kisser, so is Steve, and Peter initially burned with embarrassment at how inexperienced he must have come off, but Tony reassured him. Said kissing Peter is a joy and he’s just making excuses to do it constantly.

 

Not like Peter thinks Tony freaking Stark-Rogers needs an excuse to kiss him.

 

But he likes the game of it, especially because it usually results in him being pulled into the man's lap with Tony's tongue in his mouth, the kisses getting progressively messier and needier until they end up grinding against each other and Peter comes in his pants. After which he helps out Tony; with his hand or his mouth, it varies.   


Speaking of his mouth.

 

Peter’s been learning how to give blowjobs. The couple teach him graciously, demonstrating on Peter and then talking him through it while he performs on one of them. At first he was terrified of doing something wrong, and specifically of having either one of the husbands (fucking enormous) cocks in his mouth, anywhere near his teeth (fear for them) or his throat (fear for himself). They’d eased his worries quickly, though, and were so patient and so good at guiding him, eventually Peter relaxed enough to enjoy the activity.

 

He thinks there’s probably some underlying kink to their “teach him how to do things” ploys, because really, they don’t need to disguise anything. But he won’t bring it up.

 

It _is_  pretty fun.

 

Playing innocent (he’s not pretending) to learn (it’s real learning; Peter doesn’t know shit about shit) about everything, just so they can teach him (they _are_  teaching him) and guide him through his sexual exploration (that’s literally exactly what’s happening).

 

And he’s also learned a lot about the couple. Like Tony’s gift of cooking, specifically Italian, and Steve’s fondness for 40’s music and dancing.

 

There was one night Steve had pulled Peter off the couch to dance… it was sweet. Really, really sweet and thinking about it kind of makes Peter’s chest tighten. So he doesn’t, think about it, that is. Not often.

 

He thinks about the way either man looks in the early morning, before they’ve woken up. He thinks about all he’s learned about Brooklyn from Steve’s stories and about Tony’s old butler/nanny/father-figure/friend, Jarvis. He thinks about the way Steve laughs when he can’t hold it in and the way Tony smiles when he can’t make it stop. He thinks about the times they’ve brought him with on their morning jogs (Peter roller blades to keep up) and how wonderfully domestic it is. He thinks about the way Tony’s beard feels when he runs his fingers through it and Steve’s hair when he tangles his hands in it. He thinks about how hot and warm and wrecked and whole they make him feel. Fucking him. Kissing him. Asking him if he’s eaten yet.

 

He thinks about how, in the two months since that first night, he’s learned that Tony and Steve Stark-Rogers are fucking _assholes_.

 

(Of course they aren’t actually; they’re practically saints in reality. But they’re _evil_.)

 

Because their ‘relationship’ (Peter doesn’t know what to call this thing they have) is not all crying and sensuality and Peter going into subspace (they had to explain that to him. That’s what he feels when he lets go of everything and lets them fill up his head, they told him, when he lets them take control. They said he’s so nervous and so easily overthinks things; they figured out he needed to be overwhelmed into subspace to be able to actually relax. Which, considering how _overwhelmingly_  dominant and giving and naturally disposed to take control both Steve and Tony are in bed, is why they’re perfect for him. And why he’s perfect for them).

 

There’s also playfulness and lightheartedness and apparently the capacity for cruel, heinous wickedness.

 

Because Steve and Tony developed a game.

 

A terrible game, really, where they compete to see who can slap Peter’s ass more times in a day.

 

Peter’s gotten pretty good at dodging them, but they’re committed. It’s not so horrible sometimes, when it's a casual or gentle swat that makes Peter jump a little in surprise and nothing more, and he'll look over and see them smiling adoringly at him. But sometimes they get into moods of dangerous playfulness that is not of the gentle variety:

 

And smack Peter's ass so hard that he yelps and leaps a foot into the air. They’ll all but spank him with such force that he knows his ass turns cherry red _immediately_. And he hates it even more because he doesn't actually hate it at all. He whacks them on the shoulder or arm in retaliation and calls them creative profanities while they laugh, so pleased with themselves, but in the back of his head, Peter's at least a little amused at their antics.

 

And it’s that stupid goddamn game that got him where he is now.

 

It was one of the rough days.

 

It started out right away in the morning. Peter woke up alone in Steve and Tony’s bed, smelling waffles and coffee wafting through the open bedroom door. He’d slunk his way towards the kitchen in nothing more than boxers and been zombie walking past Steve, who sat at the table with a steaming mug, towards the coffee pot. Just as he’d passed Steve’s chair, the man had said, “Good morning baby boy,” to him and Peter could _hear_  the mischievous smile, and before he could even mumble a response, Steve’s palm had come down on Peter’s butt _hard_. So hard that Peter had shrieked and lept six inches into the air, stricken awake. He’d held his burning asscheek with one hand and turned sharply to deck Steve’s shoulder, grumbling a stream of expletives, and kept his eyes on the man’s far-too-amused-to-be-safe expression for the remainder of breakfast.

 

That had only been the beginning.

 

Tony had retaliated by smacking his butt as they cleaned dishes and Peter almost dropped the plate he was drying (and then almost broke it over Tony’s head). Tony scored another consecutive point a short while later, toothbrush in his mouth, when Peter was getting out of the shower. He kicked at the man but Tony had avoided him, laughing as he trotted out of reach. Peter responded by locking him out of the bathroom so he could “get dressed in fucking peace!” and Tony had to finish brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink.

 

Steve evened their scores again not long after, despite Peter being hyper vigilant. He’d caught Peter by the waistband of his jeans and pulled him into a searing kiss, at which point Peter’s guard dropped enough for the man to knead into his already abused cheeks-- and then smack down so hard that Peter lurched against him. The younger man immediately pushed him off, though, calling him the devil incarnate and scurrying away, Steve chasing after him with, “Oh come on, I’m sorry, Petey I’m sorryyyy”.

 

And so it went on. All. Fucking. Day.

 

Tony when Peter was leaving the room to call back Aunt May. Steve when Peter re-entered the room (he’d waited behind the _freaking door_  for Peter to walk back inside). Tony when Peter was grabbing a snack from the fridge. Steve as he was sitting down on the cushioned chair, nose already in the book he held (he thought he was safe-- Steve was on the far side of the couch, away from him, but the man _lunged_  over in time to slap Peter as he was moving down). Steve again during lunch. Then Tony when Peter was leaning forward to get the remote off the coffee table (he wasn’t even standing, had to raise up off the couch just enough to reach the remote and Tony still managed to nail the top half of his ass).

 

Both of them, at the same freaking time, when Peter stood up to go get a snack. He was even running for it, too, to try to avoid it, moving quick as he could. But the men who had been sitting on either side of him were quicker, and before he was out of range, they both whacked him so hard, each man’s hand hitting a cheek, that Peter just nearly screamed and turned around, trying to punch either one while shouting ‘mother fucking assholes!’ at them. Tony and Steve had both been dying laughing, of course, catching his hands and wrists as he tried to attack, pulling him back down and smothering him with giggling kisses.

 

Peter wanted to murder them.

 

Eventually the wretched day had ended, and per usual for them, they wound up in bed. The very, very soft mattress with blankets and pillow cases that must have a crazy high thread count to be as smooth and soothing and comfortable as they are.

 

And Peter can’t even enjoy it, because the bum he’s sitting with is on _fire_.

 

He knows it’s bruised. He knows it.

 

And he winces when Tony pulls him to sit down between his legs, because even the fluffy mattress and comfort of Tony’s embrace can’t overpower the sharp sting and ache he feels. He can’t suppress a whimper, and Steve looks at him, concerned.

 

“You ok, baby?” He asks, and Peter wants to snark him about how much his butt hurts, but Steve sounds too genuinely worried. He could play off that and get all sniffly and upset about it (he knows that works because he’s done it on accident before-- though he’s not sure if he can act like that and still be effective or if Steve will know he’s pretending. Probably. The man sees right through him no matter what. They both do.) but instead he just nods.

 

“‘m fine,” he says, because ass-beating or not, they’ve been kissing and touching for the last half hour and he’s a liar if he says he’s not getting hard.

 

Steve grins at him, then moves forward and kisses him. Steve always kisses so sweet and so deep, Peter loses himself in it. He lets Steve pull him up to his knees, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders and neck, one of his hands immediately finding the artist’s hair. It’s a relief to be off his bum, anyways.

 

Behind him, Tony follows them into a kneeling position, crowding behind Peter. He snakes one arm around the small boy’s waist, fingers trailing up his bare stomach. The other hand moves to his back, tracing circles onto smooth skin before dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers.

 

Tony’s hand ghosts over Peter’s skin, but it’s still uncomfortable. He tries not to let it affect the way he’s kissing Steve.

 

And then Tony’s finger, which Peter didn’t even realize had lube on it, is prodding at his entrance, rubbing pleasant coolness into his rim. He starts to push his finger in, though, and that’s when Peter realizes this isn’t going to work tonight. It hurts, having Tony’s finger inside him, and he can’t imagine what kind of pain either man’s cock would bring. It stings and he shifts instinctively away from it, whimpering. He wonders if the couple can tell the difference between that sound (ouch) and his usual (godpleasemore).

 

They can, apparently.

 

Tony quickly but gently removes his finger and Steve pulls away, looking at Peter with worried eyebrows.

 

“Pete? Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asks, cupping his face. Tony pulls away from him, moving to the side so Peter can see him too, and the younger boy sits back on his butt.

 

Which, wrong move, ouch. He pulls his knees up a little ways in front of him anyways, feeling a little nervous and defensive, because he really doesn’t want to disappoint them-- wants to be good-- but he _can’t_  have sex tonight. He just can't. Now he has to tell them that, and his stomach feels kind of heavy, and he hopes they won’t be put off. (Upset or angry? No, never. They’re too good of people to be angry with someone for refusing sex. But that’s kind of the reason Peter’s here in the first place, so he’s a little worried that they’ll be hiding irritation or disappointment from him).

 

Part of his mind, though, is satisfied. Retaliation for slapping his ass all freaking day. Serves them right.

 

“I… I don’t think I can do this tonight,” he offers with a quiet voice. Steve and Tony look so worried, so concerned… and then something, a flash like understanding, quickly replaced by worry again. Except this time the worry is fake as hell and Peter can see the devilish satisfaction in both of their faces, in the split second look they shared, and oh, _fuck_  them both.

 

“Why not? What’s wrong baby?” Tony asks, and all Peter’s concern vanishes in a heartbeat because that is the most fraud guilt he’s ever heard in his life.

 

“I’m sore.” Peter states, and now he’s narrowing his eyes and frowning and glaring at them, and their so poorly constructed masks crumble, infuriatingly vexatious, entertained smiles taking over.

 

“Why’s that, sweet thing?” Steve asks, tongue darting out to wet his lips, an action that morphs to him biting his lower lip. At least he’s _trying_  to suppress his grin. Tony’s not even doing that; the man is so blatantly pleased with himself, Peter might tackle him down.

 

He tries not to give too much attention to the part of his brain that is also amused (due to genuinely finding it funny, or to loving that the couple are so happy, he’s not sure).

 

“‘cause you guys kept hitting my ass all day!” Peter snaps with exaggerated, half pretend irritation. He kicks Steve (very, very lightly, of course) in the chest to accentuate his words. The man catches his ankle as he’s pulling away, though, cupping behind his heal with one hand to hold his leg up, the other holding his foot and gently rubbing at it, his thumb running across the sensitive arch. It feels nice and Peter’s overemphasized scowl falters. Damn Steve and his very endearing, soothing affection.

 

Steve and Tony share a look at Peter’s words and action, both regarding him with equally delighted and sympathetic smiles.

 

“Aw, we’re sorry honey,” says Tony who is not sorry at all one bit. He turns to Steve for a moment and whispers something in his ear, and Steve’s smile widens and he nods. The event takes only a couple of seconds and Peter’s momentarily consumed by confusion, replaced by skepticism when they turn their attention back to him. Tony’s scooting towards him, at his side, and Steve grabs his other ankle, shuffling forwards.

 

“Poor baby,” Tony coos, slipping a hand under Peter’s jaw and tipping up his chin, leaning down and pecking him on the lips. As he does, Steve makes a home between Peter’s legs, slowly tugging the boy’s boxers down and off.

 

“Sweet boy, let us make it up to you?” Tony asks against Peter’s lips (not really asking).

 

Peter has never been more suspicious in his life. Whatever’s about to happen is definitely not an apology, not solely for his benefit (or not at all). He narrows his eyes at Tony, but it doesn’t last, because then the man is kissing him and pushing until Peter’s head hits the pillow.

 

Down the bed, Steve gathers Peter’s legs together, holding his calves, and then shifts his hands around and up to grip Peter just below the knees. He pushes up, then, and keeps going until Peter suddenly freezes (access, it’s access again), straightening his legs enough to free from Steve’s grip and sit up slightly.

 

A little spark of panic had just flashed through him. He knows they’re being playful, now, but he meant it when he said he can’t have sex tonight. It’ll hurt too much.

 

“S-Steve, I, I said I c-” he begins, but Steve hushes him, hands soothing on his knees.

 

“Shh, it’s ok, I know angel, I know. I’m not gonna fuck you, alright? We’re gonna try something different, something new. Trust us?” Peter looks at him, his reassuring face, so open and encouraging. He glances at Tony, who gives him the same look, and then turns back to Steve. He does. He does trust them. So he swallows heavy and nods.   
  
“Good boy. Lay down now, ok?” Steve’s voice is gentle. Peter listens to him, his back hitting the bed again. Steve and Tony give him supportive, appreciative smiles, and then Steve is repeating his actions, pushing Peter’s knees up until they’re pressed against his chest.

 

The action shifts his hips so much that his ass is almost entirely off the bed now, angled up and out, his entrance on display. His cock, still very much hard, is pressed now between his thighs and stomach, the gap between his legs not big enough for it to spring through, so it remains trapped against his skin. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting his lip and swallowing the lump in his throat again.

 

Tony’s arm replaces Steve’s in holding Peter’s knees up, and Steve moves back down, situating until his head is level with Peter’s hole. Peter doesn’t get to wonder what he’s doing before Steve’s tongue swipes across the tight entrance. The small boy yelps and jumps (and his legs would’ve shot out and kicked Steve if Tony hadn’t held them down, he notes) and scrambles to sit up, but Tony quickly collects his wrists with his free hand, pinning them to the bed above Peter’s head.

 

“Wh-what-” the small boy tries to ask, but Tony cuts him off.

 

“Shh, easy sweetheart, it’s alright. Let it happen, ok? Steve’s gonna make you feel real good,” the man whispers, licking the shell of Peter’s ear. He shivers, breathing fast, and looks at Tony with panicked eyes. It’s not for long, though, because then Steve’s hot, wet tongue is grazing over his hole again and Peter closes his eyes to moan.

 

The heat burns, Peter’s ass was already on fire, but it’s so much softer and more gentle than fingers or a cock ever could be. Steve keeps it up, lapping around the outside of Peter’s rim, massaging the boy’s entrance with his tongue. Peter can’t hold back the groan he lets out, and it morphs to a whine as Steve makes his tongue firm and prods at Peter’s hole.

 

“That’s it, there you go honey. Look at you, so sensitive,” Tony muses, kissing Peter’s pink cheeks.

 

“Y-your f-fault,” Peter stutters, trying to sass the man despite Steve’s tongue soaking him. Tony chuckles and wets his lips, releasing Peter’s legs and guiding them down to either side of Steve. Steve catches his ankles though, holding them up and out so Peter can try to clench his legs together and press his knees close, but only above Steve’s head, not shielding his crotch or his ass (considering his hard on his pressed firmly to his belly, pooling precome there, and despite releasing his knees, his hips remained angled to expose him). And then Tony moves to whisper in Peter’s ear.

 

“Hmm, yeah, suppose it is. But look at you, little boy, dripping for Steve’s tongue like that. Bet you really need it, huh? You wanna come already? Don’t worry, baby, we’ll give you what you need. Make you come just from his mouth, won’t even have to touch your pretty cock,” the dirty talk gets to Peter instantly, making him arch his back into Steve’s face. Steve responds happily, finally slipping his tongue past Peter’s rim, his mouth falling completely over Peter’s hole.

 

“W-What? I, I c-can’t, Tony, I,” Peter tries to tell him, convey that he can’t come untouched (he’s sure if he could, he would have that first night), but Tony isn’t having it.

 

“Yes you can, baby, and you will. You’ll come just from this because you’re such a good boy, and Steve’s gonna make you feel so good, you can do it.” Tony replies, moving to kiss his neck. His fingers find Peter’s swollen nipples and he nudges at them, touching lightly, faintly. Peter groans, wiggling, trying to free his legs or his arms, wanting to do _something_  (push away or pull closer, he’s not sure) but unable to.

 

Steve’s tongue is completely inside Peter, now, coating his walls in saliva. The sensation is so strange, the soft muscle moving fluidly with curves and curls and contorting in ways a cock, or even fingers, just can’t.

 

It’s weird and hot and smooth and _wet_  and it’s driving Peter crazy. Steve’s massaging his insides, pressing into all the right places, gliding in and out of him. Peter can feel him pooling saliva on his tongue and pushing it into Peter, making him feel wetter than he ever has before.

 

Peter whimpers and moans at the touches, the constant strikes of sudden pleasure Steve gives him shooting unprecedented up his spine and gathering, brewing heavily in his tummy.

 

Tony pinches and kneads at his nipples, making them sore. He kisses down Peter’s throat and chest, leaving hickeys on the divot joint between his neck and shoulder and his collar bones. He takes one of Peter’s nipples into his mouth, sucking on it, licking gently. It sends sharp, aching pleasure through the young boy’s ribs and he whines, mewling pitifully, lost in the sensations.

 

Then Steve pushes his tongue deep inside Peter, covering his hole completely with his lips, and _sucks_.

 

Peter almost screams.

 

His hips jerk and his thighs try to clench but nothing comes from it because Steve is still holding his legs apart; he loses the cry is his throat and it breaks into whimpers and gasps, his back arching. His stomach twists up and the heat tells him that large beads of precome spill forcefully from his frankly _burning_  hard on. He instinctively tries to yank his wrists free, but Tony holds tight. The man chuckles softly, kissing Peter’s chin and licking over where the small boy is biting his bottom lip.

 

“Like that, honey? You feel good?” Tony asks, nipping Peter’s earlobe.

 

Peter can’t form any coherent thoughts at this point, really, but he tries to nod. He thinks he does, anyways, sniffling and hoping he’s not crying. His eyes feel wet.

 

“Doing so good, honey, so good, taking it so perfectly, aren’t you,” Tony’s praise goes right to Peter’s cock, strained and flushed pink with desperation. Peter wants them to touch it, wants to touch _himself_ , wants to so bad, but he _can’t_  because Tony wants him to come without it, and even if Peter wanted to brush him off (he doesn’t), the man’s still pinning his wrists down.

 

Doesn’t stop him from begging for it, though.

 

“T-Tony, I, p-please I can’t, p-plea-ease-” Peter tries to plead, but Steve sucks on his hole again and his entire body convulses with the act, his request turning into a long, high pitched cry. He tugs fruitlessly at his legs and wrists again, and the tears he had hoped not to shed begin spilling from his eyes. He knows his cheeks are flushed and his lips are bitten red, can feel his hard on leaking more profusely. It makes him feel exposed and dirty and he can’t seem to care at all; his entire mind reduced to _pleasure_  and _need_.

 

Tony kisses him, pushing his tongue into Peter’s mouth and swallowing up his moans.

 

“Poor baby. Yes you can, sweetheart, I know you can. You’re just gonna have to wait for it,” Tony teases, and it makes Peter cry more. He needs to come like, five minutes ago, he can’t do this. He wants it to stop, wants Tony to stop touching his nipples and Steve to stop sucking on his rim and to just come and feel the relief-- but he doesn’t want any of it to ever end because it feels _so fucking good_ , and that conflict is driving him insane.

 

He writhes on the bed, gasping for breath that his cries and sobs keep stealing. Because he _is_  sobbing now, heaves wrecking their way out of his lungs, a steady flow of tears blazing their trail down his cheeks. Steve hums and groans in, fuck, Peter doesn’t even know what, appreciation? Want? Peter can’t tell but he feels it vibrate off the man’s tongue and _inside him_  and he releases probably the most femininely high pitched, needy sound he’s ever made in his life.

 

Tony seems to like it.

 

”I can’t believe it took us this long to do this, baby. Fuck, look at you, should’ve been eating you out ages ago,” the man groans, kisses Peter’s jaw and neck sloppily. He leaves patches of saliva over Peter’s skin, nibbling on his collar bones again, licking the hickeys he’s already made. Peter can’t handle the combination of dirty talk and sweet praise that keep rolling out of Tony’s mouth, or the way the man is touching his very over-stimulated nipples, or everything Steve is doing to his ass. His stomach feels tight and hot and heavy and his thighs shake violently with the tremors of pleasure that the men are provoking.

 

He might actually come untouched after all, he thinks.

 

“Perfect boy, pretty baby, so pretty like this,” Tony whispers, his voice so low and gravely it’s sending shivers up and down Peter’s arms. “So cute when you need it so bad. We’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he continues, licking one of the streaks of hot tears draining from Peter’s eyes. Peter whines at his words. He’s going to go crazy, but his mind is so blank he doesn’t think he’ll mind. All he can think about is _Tony_  and _Steve_  and _feelssogood_.

 

He’s soaked by now, in more ways than one. His cock has effectively drenched itself in precome and his hole is dripping with Steve’s saliva. Tony’s gotten his neck and nipples pretty wet, too, and distantly Peter is glad that the room is hot with their activities, because he knows cool air on his spit-coated nipples would only make things _more_. Worse and better all at the same time.

 

It’s ironic that he realizes this, because just as he does, Tony blows a cool breath onto Peter’s chest and he lurches, jerking at the motion. The action causes him to press further onto Steve, and he immediately pulls back, but Steve follows him, burying his face in Peter’s ass.

 

“S-Steve, I,” Peter can’t think. He can’t fucking _breathe_. It’s too much and not enough in all the wrong (right) ways and he feels like he’s burning up. His head is full of cotton and his cock screams at him.

 

“Come on, baby, I know you’re close. Come for us, angel, come,” Tony husks into his ear, and then he’s biting down on Peter’s neck and pinching his nipple, and Steve sucks on his hole while thrusting his tongue in just right and Peter had no fucking idea that Steve pushed a finger into him (when?! When the hell did that happen?!) but he knows now, because the soft, wet pad of said finger presses against Peter’s prostate-- and Peter cries out.

 

It’s something kind of like a wail, or a scream, but not quite so loud and it breaks and wavers and sounds _destroyed_. And all the painfully good sensations peak and the pressure inside him explodes, and Peter thinks he blacks out for a second when he orgasms. It shakes him and he feels his blood setting on fire, his back arching dangerously and all his muscles tensing to cramp. The heat in his stomach erupts and then he’s coming, completely untouched, painting his stomach and chest with pearly, creamy release. He sees white and then black and his brain only logs back on after his body has fallen boneless and lax.

 

He feels weak and empty, like all his energy is gone. His eyes are heavy and there’s no way he’ll be using a single one of his muscles or limbs or _anything_  for a while. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open as he tries to catch his breath. He barely registers that his legs have been let down, someone’s hands rubbing soothingly on his thighs. His wrists were released, too, because now his elbows are bent and his hands are held slightly above his chest, someone massaging where there might actually be bruises (not that Tony squeezed too tight, but Peter had pulled _so hard_ ).

 

There are soft voices whispering things to him, but he doesn’t catch much more than the repeated ‘so proud of you’, ‘did so good’, and ‘sweet, perfect boy’.

 

When he finally swallows the soreness down (god, all the crying he did tonight, he’ll have a hoarse throat tomorrow for sure), wets is swollen lips and manages to open his eyes to half lidded, he sees Tony and Steve hovering over him, looking down with sympathy and fondness.

 

“That’s it, come back to us now, Petey,” Steve’s saying softly. His lips are still glossy.

 

“Did so good, precious boy, were so good for us, angel,” Tony whispers, letting Peter’s hands fall gently to the blankets beside his head. God, Peter loves these blankets. So comfy.

 

Peter offers them a weak smile and closes his eyes again, nowhere near recovered. They seem to understand, because they don’t say anything else or try to move him.

 

But Peter can hear the sound of cloth being discarded (Steve and Tony’s underwear?), and then Tony groaning quietly. The sound of wet skin on skin, quick moving, and Steve and Tony kissing. It goes on for a few minutes, Peter drifting in and out of consciousness as it does. Eventually, though, he comes to enough to realize without opening his eyes that Steve is jerking Tony off. That’s only confirmed when he hears Tony come, and then _feels_  him come, because it splatters onto Peter. Onto his stomach and his thighs and, oh shit, onto his _cock_.

 

Peter opens his eyes once more, looking up dazed to see Tony panting, wiping his mouth, and Steve looking at Peter with straight up hunger. Peter gives him what he wants to be a suggestive grin, but he knows it comes off and loopy and disoriented and weak, because that’s how he feels. He starts to push himself up, though, his elbows at first, and then to a sitting position. Which, ouch, right.

 

His ass.

 

He ignores it, though, in favor of letting Steve take his hands and help him sit up. Steve is hard, his cock flushed an angry red. Peter feels bad for him, having been pleasuring the small boy for so long without any _real_  gratification. Other than a satisfied ego, Peter supposes, because he _did_  come on Steve’s tongue.

 

Steve looks at him with hooded eyes and a parted-lipped smile, kissing him softly. Peter kisses back as best he can, and when he pulls back, he does what he knows drives Steve crazy, and opens his mouth a little wider, just barely sticking his tongue out. Steve’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans, but then he’s got a hand on the back of Peter’s head, fingers threading in his hair to guide him down to the man’s cock.

 

Peter puts his lessons to work.

 

He sucks and laps at Steve’s dick, using tricks Tony taught him to make Steve jerk forwards, the man obviously resisting the urge to take hold of Peter’s head and face-fuck him.

 

Peter can’t say he’s entirely opposed to the idea, though.

 

It doesn’t take long for Peter to get Steve spitting out warnings, and which point he feels a hand stroking his cheek. He opens his eyes to see Tony, who smirks at him (still in a post-orgasm haze himself).

 

“When he comes, don’t swallow it right away, ok?” He says. Peter looks at him confused but gives what he wants to be an affirmative hum. Steve groans at the action, and Peter looks up at him, only then realizing what a sight it must be. Glossy eyed and naked with Steve almost entirely (Peter still can’t take the whole length) in his mouth. Steve makes a distraught sound and mutters one last warning, before he’s coming into Peter’s mouth.

 

Some of it goes right down Peter’s throat, which he tries not to cough and choke on, but he does his best to listen to Tony, holding the release in his mouth. Steve pulls away from him and slouches back, hand still in Peter’s hair.

 

It’s at this point that Tony takes a gentle hold of Peter’s chin, turning his head to face the man. Peter looks at him openly, wondering and ready for whatever Tony has. He’s not quite prepared for the man to push his index and middle fingers into Peter’s mouth, though.

 

Peter lets him in easily, some of Steve’s come dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. And that does something to them both, Peter can see it in their faces, and then Tony is pressing his fingers onto the tip of Peter’s tongue and lightly hooking them over his bottom teeth, pulling his jaw down. Peter obliges quickly, and the action causes probably half of Steve’s come to spill out of his mouth, over his lips and Tony’s fingers and down his chin.

 

It a second or so, not a moment more, Tony is on Peter, kissing him. He takes Steve’s come into his mouth, the kiss so messy and wet with saliva and release that it makes Peter feel blissfully dirty. They both moan into it, swallowing some, kissing some, and then Tony is licking the corners of his mouth and down his chin, clearing his face of Steve’s orgasm.

 

This prompts something in Steve, who pushes Peter down onto his back again. Both men’s mouths follow, and soon they’re littering his body in kisses, licking at Peter and Tony’s release, covering him. Peter sighs in content at the reverent, tender treatment.Tony’s mouth sucks up the remnants on Peter’s chest and stomach, and Steve moves between his legs again, lapping up Tony’s come from Peter’s thighs and cock. Peter is half expecting to get hard again from the situation, but while Steve’s tongue on his all his sensitive spots makes his dick twitch slightly, he stays soft.

 

He’s grateful. He isn’t sure he can handle another orgasm after that last one.

 

He isn’t sure he can handle much of _anything_  but laying here and letting his lovers lick him clean after such an intense experience.

 

Eventually, the men are satisfied with their work, and resolve to laying next to Peter. They kiss him, they kiss each other, softly, gently. Unhurried. They lay there for a while, the three of them, blissed out (and completely, utterly exhausted, in Peter’s case) for who knows how long (Peter sure doesn’t), before Steve is sitting up.

 

“Come on, baby, let’s get you cleaned up,” he prompts quietly, his voice so soft and sweet. Peter wants to sleep in it. Does that make sense? He thinks it does. He giggles a little and is surprised at how his voice cracks and wavers. He sounds _r_ _uined_.

 

Feels it, too.

 

“The whole licking thing didn’t count?” He offers. Steve smiles at him and Tony kisses his temple.

 

“Not this time, honey. Why don’t we take a shower, hm? We’ll make it quick,” he pauses to lay another kiss to the boy’s cheekbone, “know you’re tired.”

 

Peter nods sleepily, because he is, he is _so_  tired, and lets Tony pull him up. The man carries him bridal style, following Steve into their bathroom. He keeps holding Peter in his arms, nuzzling the side of you the younger man’s face while his husband gets the water just right.

 

Peter’s pretty sure he’s slipping in and out of consciousness during the shower, because he remembers kissing the palm of the hand that cups his cheek and feeling warm under the water, but he doesn’t remember Tony washing his hair, or exactly when Steve had wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him up.

 

It ends too fast either way, he thinks, because he liked the steamy heat, but then a towel fluffier than Peter’s fluffiest blanket is being wrapped around him and he’s mumbling something about ‘can do it m’self’, which Tony laughs quietly at and helps dry him anyways.

 

Steve assists him in putting on boxers and a t-shirt, neither of which are his and both feel heavenly. The clothes smell like the husbands and it fills Peter’s still very offline brain with pleasant feelings. Someone carries him to the living room and the couple set him down in front of the couch. He’s vaguely aware that the boxers are nearly shorts on him and the shirt is just barely shorter than the underwear, and his damp hair is more unruly now that it’s wet and his eyes are half lidded and he knows he looks like a fool-- but Tony coos at him and reaches out, pulling him in by the waist.

 

Peter kneels against the edge of the couch cushion and then Steve is guiding him by the arms until somehow he ends up laying over the two men’s laps, his head on a pillow just beside Steve’s outer leg. He’s flat on his stomach and wraps his arms around the pillow, turning his head away from the light of the TV and into Steve’s shirt, nuzzling against the man.

 

He feels hands pulling down the boxers and he whines in displeasure, but then a fingers are running through his hair so soothingly, and Tony’s voice comes from behind him.

 

“Shh, it’s alright pretty baby. I’m just giving you something. An apology for how mean we were to you today,” He sounds light and teasing, but still soft-spoken. It makes Peter feel happy, so he lets the man rub something cool-- lotion? Some kind of cream --into his ass. It feels nice, instantly soothing the perpetual burn, and Tony massages it in so gently that Peter’s barely awake at all by the time the man rights his boxers and drapes a blanket over them.

 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Steve says, so very quietly, above him. He can feel the man tenderly fondling his hair, and what must be Tony’s hand tracing pleasant figure eights into his calf (just below the back of his knee) under the blanket, but he’s not sure who’s rubbing his back. He supposes it doesn’t matter, really.

 

“Mmm, g‘night,” he whispers, snuggling further into the pillow and Steve’s stomach. He smells like safe and good and home, and Peter falls asleep wanting to stay there forever.

 

They haven’t told him yet, but Steve and Tony want him to stay forever, too.


	2. Three Minus One pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony both get a little one-on-one time with their favorite boy.
> 
> Part One: Tony has a business trip, but he leaves a few surprises for Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh gang this one got kinky… at least, more so than usual… I’d say I’ve already arranged a ride to church but I’d be lying
> 
> This + part two are in Tony/Steve’s perspectives, this part one from Steve's pov, hope you enjoy ;)
> 
> notes/warnings: lingerie, daddy kink (i have in the original one shot a tag that says 'not explicitly daddy kink but its basically there'. Well. It's explicit now), i'm whipped for Peter so everyone else is too ok (plus also extremely light mention of drugs bc there's a bit in here abt Tony that references similarities to canon Tony + irl RDJ > whom I would sell my soul for), and some more coming untouched

“I’ll be back by Friday, ok?” Tony says, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. Steve helps him situate the strap so it won’t slide down, kissing his cheek.

 

“We know, Tony, you told us eight times already,” he chuckles, reaching over to ruffle Peter’s hair. The small boy stands beside him, both of them facing Tony. They’re at the front door of their house, and any second now, Tony’s going to walk out into frigid cold, get in the cab waiting for him, and catch his flight.

 

He has to go upstate for a series of board meetings, something to do with stocks and marketing and ‘very, very boring bullshit business’, as he called it. Steve teased him by saying that’s what happens when you run a company like Stark Industries, but they both know the artist is infinitely proud of his husband. Tony’s life was kind of going to shit before he started up, working with nothing and building a respectable company. A respectable company that turned into a big-name business, and now they have more income than they know what to do with, Tony’s been clean for years, and he has to go to ‘boring bullshit meetings’.

 

“I’m just makin’ sure you heard me,” Tony huffs, grinning like a cat. He reaches over, cupping Peter’s cheek and caressing the soft skin, before kissing his forehead. “See you later sweet pea,” he mumbles. Peter closes his eyes and leans into the touch, soft smile on his face.

 

“Bye, Tony,” his voice is quiet. Tony pulls away and turns to Steve, dragging the man into a hug.

 

“Love you,” he whispers. Steve smiles, kissing his temple.

 

“Love you too.”

 

Tony lets Steve out of the hug and adjusts the strap of his bag one more time. He turns, hand on the door, pulling it open when he looks back.

  
  
“Friday.” He’s smirking.

 

“Friday.” Steve says, Peter nodding beside him. Tony gives them one more pointed look, and then he’s out the door.

 

Steve and Peter move into the frame, leaning out slightly, waving to him as the cab pulls away. Has Steve been married to him for a long time? Known him forever? His best friend that he spends virtually every waking moment with? Is this only a two day trip? All yes.

 

Will he miss the prick anyways?

 

Also Yes.

 

He lets his arm fall around Peter’s shoulders and the younger leans into him, resting his head against Steve’s side. It makes Steve grin. He may be losing his husband for two days, but he’s also got _Peter_  for the next 48 hours (due to his wonderful, wonderful winter break). He pulls the boy in a little tighter, and then backs them away so he can close the door.

 

The moment the heavy wood shuts, the chill dies and Steve can feel the warmth of the house moving back through his skin.

 

“Wha’do you wanna do today, Pete?” he asks, turning so he can pull the kid in, Steve hands on his waist (he looks so tiny under Steve’s hands, it drives the man crazy) and Peter’s arms snug between their chests.

 

“Mmm, I dunno. What do you think?” Peter says, looking up at him with a sweet face. Fuck, he’s so pretty.

 

Steve pretends to think for a while, but he already knows what Peter wants. It’s been a cold and hellish week; he knows his baby just needs some cuddling, maybe hot drinks and a movie.

 

“Why don’t we just relax, hm? Make some hot chocolate, see if we can’t find something to watch. How’s that sound, honey?” Steve know he’s making his voice a little deeper, speaking a little quieter than he needs to. He can’t help it. The way he can _feel_  Peter’s breathing, his pulse snapping. How he blushes so prettily when they use pet names and sweet endearment. It’s cute; he’s cute.

 

  
“That sounds nice,” Peter hums, and his eyelids look a little heavy and Steve imagines they’ll probably be napping today. Not that he minds.

 

Steve nods, releasing Peter’s waist to take his hand. He guides the small boy to the kitchen, where they make hot chocolate together. Steve knows Peter likes vanilla with his, so he reaches up to a shelf he knows the kid can’t reach and sets it on the counter before Peter even asks him to. He’s happy to help. The flush of pink on the younger’s cheeks and soft spoken thanks are just a bonus.

  
Hot chocolate in hand, they move to the living room, getting comfortable on the couch. Steve sits with his arm over the back, Peter curled up into a ball, leaning against him. He tosses a thick blanket over them, making sure to pull it up over Peter’s shoulders, and flips through the channels. They settle on some discovery program (Peter likes those a lot, Steve’s found) and let the cocoa warm them up while a man narrates about the oceans.

 

They finish their drinks during the part about whales and Steve sets the mugs on the end table, pulling Peter by the waist into his lap. The boy’s so small and light, so easy to move around, Steve’s lying if he says he doesn’t love it. Peter yelps at the action but giggles happily as Steve situates him in his lap. He lets his hands hang loosely around the kid’s hips, nosing at his temple and kissing his cheek.

 

Of course, nothing with them can ever stay platonic forever.

 

Steve had been absent-mindedly rubbing his thumbs in little circles under Peter’s shirt, at the bottom of his belly. At some point he vaguely noticed his own hands slipping lower, due to nothing but gravity and coincidence, but Peter didn’t seem to realize it. Which is why an innocent action and casual adjustment turned into Steve seeing just how much he can do before Peter picks up on it.

 

His hands move lower yet, just ghosting over the boy’s jeans, until one is unnoticeably lightly cupping the crotch of his baby’s pants. Peter swallows heavy but doesn’t make any moves or comments, so Steve continues. He lets pressure and weight increase until he has a firm hold between the boy’s legs. Peter’s squirming a little now, biting his lip.

 

“S-Steve,” he whines quietly, and the man loves how easily flustered he is. It makes teasing him all the more entertaining.

 

“Something wrong, baby?” Steve asks, squeezing a little to accentuate his words, because he knows Peter will only groan softly and try not to pay attention. That’s exactly what happens, a moment later. A self-satisfied grin takes Steve’s face and he squeezes again. He picks up a rhythm, fondling Peter through his jeans, rubbing where he knows the small boy is sensitive. It’s making Steve hard, seeing Peter squirm and bite back whimpers, feeling him start to tremble with restraint. Poor thing, Steve thinks. He and Tony really are so mean to him, toying with him until he’s in tears.

 

They can’t help it, though. When he’s so adorable already, and looks so pretty when he needs it so bad?

 

Steve can’t resist.

 

“Ste-eve,” Peter hiccups, biting his lip. Steve wants to bite that lip. But instead he just grins, taking in the scent of Peter’s shampoo and kissing his temple.

 

“Need something, sweetheart?” Steve prompts, wanting to drag it out. Peter groans a little, quiet exasperation, wiggling on the man’s lap.

 

“P-please,” he whimpers. Steve sighs in content, pulling him a little tighter and rolling his hand over Peter’s crotch. The boy’s hips jerk and he bites back a yelp. It’s cute and since he asked nicely (not that he doesn’t _always_  ask nicely, such a good boy), Steve decides to pity him.

 

“I’ve got you, precious, come ‘ere,” he whispers, and then he’s turning Peter around and the boy’s hurrying to comply. He gets Peter in his lap again, facing him this time, the documentary forgotten. The boy hangs his arms over Steve’s shoulders, bent so his fingers can run through the back of Steve’s hair. The older man loves it when he does that; always so careful and curious as he feels through the blonde. His cheeks are pink and his lip worried red, and he’s looking at Steve so pleadingly. It makes the man want to hold him close and kiss him gently-- and fuck him until he can’t remember his name.

 

Steve kisses Peter softly, unrushed despite the boy’s desperation. His tongue traces the kid’s lower lip as his hands settle on the lithe waist again. He pushes one under the small boy’s hoodie, palm roaming up his tummy and chest, feeling the warm, soft skin. The other works around, dipping his fingers under Peter’s waistband and into his jeans, somewhere between his side and ass. Then Steve’s brows furrow in confusion when he feels something unfamiliar. Soft like silk, but, holes? Like netting or embroidery, it’s not solid fabric, and he’s just pulling out of the kiss, wondering what the hell it is (about to ask), when realization hits him like a fucking freight train.

 

Lace.

 

That’s lace.

 

Whatever the fuck Peter’s wearing under his jeans, it’s bordered with motherfucking _lace_.

 

Steve swallows hard and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck_. He wets his lips and looks at Peter, who’s own bottom lip is caught under his teeth, looking at Steve with those big brown doe eyes. He’s pulled back slightly, leaning away from Steve far enough for his forearms to rest of the man’s shoulders, and Steve can feel the boy’s hands fidgeting nervously behind his neck.

 

“Pete,” he starts, but his throat feels dry. “What is that?” He asks. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. His hands feel heavy. Peter just gives him the sweetest little shy, nervous smile, tilting his head a little (he’s too goddamn innocent for this) and speaking in a quiet voice.

 

“Why don’t you find out?”

 

Steve is going to lose his fucking mind. He doesn’t break eye contact with Peter, breathing with his mouth slightly open, as both his hands reach down. He unbuttons and unzips Peter’s jeans, then folds the waistband over itself and tugs down a little, reveling--

 

Oh holy motherfucking _shit_.

 

Steve can’t breathe right.

 

Peter-- _fuck_  --Peter’s wearing underwear. Not of the boxer or brief variety. The pretty little boy in Steve’s lap is wearing fucking _panties_.

 

 _Panties_.

 

A baby pink color that’s almost white it’s so pastel, silky, with lace trim around the top. He’s pulled Peter’s pants down enough to see how the garment hugs his skin, close but not too tight, shaping his hips and ass, the ‘legs’ cutting off short before even reaching his thighs (as underwear that is definitely Not Boxers do). He can see the shape of Peter’s little hard on pressing against the fabric, so thin and sheer, leaving hardly anything at all to the imagination (not that Steve has to imagine what he already has memorized). There’s a small wet spot darkening the pink silk around Peter’s tip, and Steve doesn’t even realize his fingers are grazing the boy’s hip, his front, tracing the sensitive joint between his thigh and crotch where the cloth ends, feeling the lace trim.

 

Steve Stark-Rogers has never been harder in his fucking life, he decides.

 

“What-” he cuts himself off to clear his throat, and swears he feels Peter shift, stifling a giggle. He should be giggling; he _should_  be pleased with himself. He’s fucking sin personified and Steve’s two seconds from losing his shit and fucking the boy into the couch cushions. “Where did you get these, pretty boy?” He manages. Peter gives him that precious little smile again, only this time, it’s a little mischievous. It makes Steve’s mouth water.

 

“Tony gave them to me,” he says. The older man almost chokes. “Said you’d like them,” the boy continues.

 

Steve has never loved and hated his husband more than he does right now. Bastard. He’s going to kiss him to death when he gets home. The artist vaguely remembers a night a while back, when Tony had been blowing Steve. He’d kept stopping to describe how Peter would look, how they’d fuck him if he was wearing lingerie, and Steve had come ridiculously hard from the visual.

 

And now Peter’s here, in his lap, literally wearing panties and Steve is already so hard it _hurts_.

 

“Do you?” Peter’s voice asks. Steve’s staring at the underwear again.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Like them, I mean. Do you like them?” Peter clarifies, and Steve looks up at him because he still sounds playful and a little sultry but the man can hear the nervousness underneath, the worry that there’s a (remote, distant, impossible) chance Steve might be put off. Which, hell no, no way in hell, and Steve has to fix that right now immediately.

 

So he kisses Peter hard, putting his hand on the back of the kid’s head so he doesn’t jerk away in surprise. Instantly, the boy melts against him, pressing so close their chests are almost touching.

 

“I fucking love them, baby, God, look at you, you’re perfect,” He says, his voice lowering again (but this time it’s unintentional). Peter preens at the reassurance, kissing Steve back with appreciative, light pecks.

 

“He told me something else, too,” Peter whispers. His voice is breathy and thick with what the older man can only describe as lust, and he grinds his hips down ever so slightly against Steve.

 

Somewhere in the back of Steve's mind, in some very small part that isn't utterly consumed by how turned on he is, he's _proud_. Because even though he can feel Peter shaking a little and sense the slight waver in his voice, can feel his speeding pulse that betrays how he's still nervous; he's actively _seducing_  (can they call it that?) Steve right now. Which, for a boy that needs to be in sub space just to relax enough to _not_  have a panic attack during sex, is incredibly impressive. And Steve is proud and satisfied, because the sweet boy in his lap trusts him enough for that. It makes him feel all warm and mushy inside. Though, part of the heat he's feeling might be from Peter. _God_ , this boy is a walking fucking wet dream.

 

“Yeah? What’s that?” Steve asks, mouthing at Peter’s jaw. He bites down, nipping the skin and licking the mark in apology. Peter shudders against him, fidgeting in his lap.

 

“Told me I should ask you something,” Peter says. Voice like sugar, boy tastes just as sweet. Steve feels his stomach tighten, because he can’t even imagine what Tony’s having this boy say to him.

 

“What’s the question, sweetheart?” He prompts. His thumbs are massaging just barely on the insides of the divots between Peter’s thighs and crotch, the lowest part of his tummy, where he knows the boy is sensitive. Peter swallows and takes a couple deep breaths, and Steve doesn’t press because he knows the kid is working up his courage. He’s so proud of him. And also really wants to be inside him. Peter bites his lip, moving to whisper in Steve’s ear.

 

“Will you please fuck me, daddy?”

 

Steve’s brain logs right the fuck off. He groans, and it sounds so _pained_  in his own ears. “Fucking hell, Pete,” he very nearly growls, picking the boy up under the thighs so suddenly that Peter yelps and clings to him.

 

Steve walks him to the bedroom in record time, his mouth latched onto Peter’s neck and sucking a rather violent hickey on the unblemished skin, kicking the door open. He tosses the small boy on the bed unceremoniously (would have commented on how cute the little surprised squeak was if he wasn’t so overwhelmingly turned on) and lunges on after him, caging him and dropping to kiss him fiercely. Peter responds needily, grabbing onto Steve’s shirt and clinging to him, kissing back.

 

“You’re gonna kill me, kid, I swear to God,” Steve groans, frantically pulling up Peter’s hoodie, tearing it up and off. Peter giggles at the comment. As soon as his sweatshirt is gone, he pulls Steve back down for another kiss. The man pushes his tongue into the small boy’s mouth, shrugging off his shirt as well, moving away only to toss it off completely.

 

“Tony said you’d like that, too,” Peter says, nipping at Steve’s lip. The artist moans into the kiss, his hands raveging Peter’s smooth torso. In the back of his mind, something mature and not animalistic wakes up and he forces himself to pull back, keeping Peter down with a hand to his chest, despite the boy’s attempts to bring him into another kiss. Which, fuck, that’s hard to resist as is.

 

“But do you like it?” He makes himself ask, because it’s important and he’s praying that Peter’s into it but he won’t press this stuff if the boy doesn’t want to. Peter looks at him with an open, semi-confused expression, so Steve continues.

 

“Do you like it? Because you don’t have to do any of this-- call me that, wear those-- if you aren’t comfortable with it,” He elaborates, and is so proud of himself for getting all of that out and not just kissing Peter senseless. Peter’s face doesn’t change, for a moment, and then that goddamn beautiful softness is back and he smiles at Steve so sweet, looks so warm and happy, and Steve wonders vaguely if there’s a deeper reason he seems so pleased by basic, decent consent checking (if there is, Steve is going to have a long talk with him and potentially murder someone). Peter nods to him, his smile widening as he speaks quietly.

 

“Yeah, y-yeah, I am. I’m ok with this. I, I think I like it,” he says, and the way it comes out is like this is some kind of sexy test run or something. Like he is, at least a little bit, genuinely trying things out, but mostly this is them taking advantage of some perverted kink exploration fantasy or some shit. Steve doesn’t care what part of this is getting him hot, though; does not give a single fuck. He’s got the ok from Peter and he wants to be inside the boy, like, right now.

 

Steve grins at him and drops to lick his chin, up to his lips, and then press to kiss him. Peter sighs happily into the kiss, but it morphs to a needy gasp as Steve starts frantically pulling away his jeans. He sits up to toss aside Peter’s pants, and then is back down, kissing him hard. Peter’s hands tangle in Steve’s hair and the older man quickly undoes his own slacks, never breaking the kiss as he removes them. He sends his boxers flying with the clothes, hovering naked over Peter, who’s now wearing nothing but the fucking panties.

 

“Yeah? You want daddy to fuck you, baby boy?” Steve says, his voice deep. His hand finds its way back to Peter’s crotch and he rubs at the head of the small boy’s cock through the silk. Peter moans, the perfect, high and desperate way he does.

 

“Please, daddy, please-” he begs. Steve fucking loses it.

 

He’s going to wreck this boy. He’s going to _ruin_  him.

 

Steve grabs lube from the bedside drawer blindly; his face buried in Peter’s neck. He sucks a hickey onto the boy’s collar bones as he pops the cap, Peter whimpering above him while he coats a finger. He grabs the boy behind one of his knees, pulling it out and up to spread his legs. He changes his grip to hold the back of Peter’s lower thigh, just above the back of his knee, pressed down, almost touching the bed-- had he not been pushing outwards as well, he could’ve easily pinned the leg to Peter’s chest. It exposes his boy so well, so prettily laid out for the man.

 

And then he’s shifting the panties over, tugging them out of the way and uncovering Peter’s beautiful ass just enough to expose his entrance. The tight, pink ring of muscle never looked so good, and Steve rubs his lubed finger at it. He’s littering Peter’s neck and chest with hickeys now, already working on love bite number four, and the small boy is clinging to him, arms wrapped around Steve’s shoulders and neck. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, but his face isn’t grimacing. Instead he looks open and _free_ , pulled apart as Steve pushes his finger in, Peter’s eyebrows furrowed and his lips parted.

 

He moves as slowly as he can with their mutual desperation, quickly working up to pumping the digit in and out, watching in awe as Peter’s glossy hole tries to suck him back in every time. He adds a second finger probably too fast, if Peter’s distressed whine is any give away, and makes it up by letting him adjust longer before Steve starts to scissor him.

 

Peter’s a withering, moaning mess under him by the time Steve works up to three fingers. He can see the wet spot growing on the little boy’s panties, and it spurs him on.

 

“Doing so good, baby, so good for me,” Steve groans, taking Peter in a kiss. The boy’s cheeks are flushed and the pretty pink blush spreads down his neck and chest, where Steve knows there must be six or seven hickeys at least. He’s not counting. He pushes his fingers in as far as he can get them and curls, twisting, looking for that spot--

 

Peter cries out, breaking the kiss, the sound becoming strained whimpers as Steve presses into his prostate. It’s music to Steve’s ears and he kisses all along Peter’s jaw, his neck, down to his nipples. The little pink nubs are so hard and swollen, Steve knows they must ache, so he licks them gently with generously supplied saliva, keeping his tongue soft and his kisses light. Peter moans, long and it grows higher every time his voice cracks. He sounds wrecked and so, _so_  desperate, it’s making Steve’s head spin.

 

“So sweet, my perfect little boy,” He says. His tone is thick with something and his voice is so deep, he’s not sure if it’s that deepness or the praise that makes Peter shudder and gasp.

 

“P-please, please, please fuck me d-daddy, plea-ease-” Steve cuts off Peter’s broken plea, turning into a sharp, high cry when he bites down (not too hard, just enough) on the little boy’s nipple, grinding the pads of his fingers into his prostate. Peter’s back arches and he nearly shrieks at the action, and Steve watches the little wet spot grow even bigger.

  
God, Steve is so fucking hard.

 

He’s done waiting.

 

He removes his fingers and he knows he’s got Peter in the headspace, because the boy whimpers pitifully at the loss, looking at Steve with glossy eyes (he’d be mortified with himself if he was regular, nervous Peter right now)(they’re still working on that).

 

“Shh, easy baby boy, I’ll give you what you need,” The man coos, lubing up his cock. “Mmm, daddy will take care of you,” his voice is gravely. Peter whines at the words. God, Steve’s probably leaking enough precome to do without the lube, honestly, but he won’t risk accidentally hurting his little boy. The cold shocks him slightly but he barely feels it, because the second he’s done, he’s pushing against the tight rim of Peter’s entrance, forcing his cock inside.

 

Panties still on.

 

Peter groans and pulls Steve lower so he can kiss him. The older man happily obliges, licking around the small boy’s mouth, moving himself deeper and deeper. He knows the stretch must burn, but Peter takes it, with gasps and moans, holding onto Steve tightly. He tries to move slow, he really does, but he bottoms out quickly. He lets go of Peter’s leg to hold himself up with both arms, because, wow, he needs both. His limbs feel weak with the restraint it’s taking him not to hammer into the little body below him.

 

Peter chokes on his breath and gasps, eyes squeezed tight, nails digging into Steve’s back. He doesn’t feel it.

 

“I-I c-can’t, S-Steve, I-ah-” Peter stutters, and Steve sees he’s crying. He kisses his face, his lips and cheeks and cheekbones and nose and forehead, down his chin, licking a hickey on his neck.

 

“Yes you can, baby, you can take it. Just relax, that’s it sweetheart, just breathe,” Steve whispers, biting down on the boy’s throat. He rubs at Peter’s tummy and starts sucking another hickey, adds two bites to his little angel’s neck and shoulder, while he waits for Peter to adjust. He’s as much distracting himself as he is the younger boy.

 

After a short while, Peter’s breaths get deeper and more full (read: normal), returning from the sharp gasps of when he no doubt thought he could feel Steve in his stomach. Steve kisses him, softly, and nips his earlobe.

 

“Ready, baby?” He asks. Peter opens his eyes, wet and a little puffy, and nods as best he can. It’s endearing, if Steve’s being honest.

 

“Y-yes, daddy,” the little boy whispers. Steve groans and pulls out almost all the way, thrusting back in with a sharp movement. It makes Peter very nearly scream and Steve knows he’ll have scratches on his back from the boy. He puts his hands on Peter’s waist, holding him down as he drags his cock out and slams in again.

 

Steve sets what he’s praying isn’t (but knows is) a brutal pace, snapping against Peter’s ass, rolling his hips. He grinds himself down on the little boy, making sure the action kneads his cock into Peter’s prostate. He resumes sucking hickeys onto the boy’s skin, working up the numbers as he pounds into him. Peter’s making the most delicious sounds, those pretty feminine pitched moans Steve is forcing out of him music to the older man’s ears. He licks Peter’s nipples again, trying (probably failing) to be gentle as Peter threads his hands in the artist’s hair. He never tugs when he does that, keeps his grip loose, but Steve assumes the action is meant to be grounding more than anything.

 

Peter whines as the older man thrusts into him, Steve’s hot mouth on his nipples. His body is rigid and withering in jerky motions, like his muscles keep snapping between boneless and tense. He’s radiating heat and Steve knows he is too, and the room that might’ve been slightly chilly from the winter outside feels hot, the air thick. Heavy, warm tightness is settling in the pit of Steve’s stomach and he knows he won’t last long. Not when he’s fucking Peter so intensely, not when he can _feel_  the silk panties that he didn’t bother to remove against his own skin every time his hips meet the small boy’s. Definitely not when Peter starts his babbling mantra of ‘please’s and ‘daddy’s.

 

“Fuck, baby boy, you’re doing so good, beautiful boy,” Steve groans, snapping forward. He can feel Peter clenching around him, that wonderfully, intoxicatingly tight heat of his ass trying to pull Steve in. The lube is dripping out messily, making the ass of Peter’s panties damp (Steve knew he used too much. Can’t seem to care, though).

 

One of Peter’s hands leaves Steve’s shoulder to reach down between them, but Steve catches him. He gathers up both of Peter’s wrists in one hand, pinning them above his head, his other hand still holding the boy’s tiny waist. Peter groans.

 

“S-Steve,” he begins, but the artist cuts him off.

 

“Uh-uh, baby, not yet. You don’t wanna get too sensitive, do you?” He asks teasingly. The older man knows his little boy has been desperate to come since they were on the couch, and the fact that Steve’s got him so worked up, pounding into him like this, is a crazy kind of turn on.

 

He thinks, distantly, that he’s probably pretty fucked up to enjoy tormenting the boy like this. But Peter just looks so _pretty_.

 

But after a while the little boy starts trembling violently under Steve, hiccuping, trying to get words out.

 

“I-I’m, I-ah, d-daddy I, p-please-” He stutters, crying through his plea. Warning? Steve thinks he might be about to come untouched (again-- has only happened a few blessed times since that first night Steve ate him out), and fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing ever.

 

“It’s ok, angel. Come on, let go, baby. Come for daddy,” Steve all but growls into Peter’s ear. He does his best to grind his entire length along the boy’s prostate while pounding into him hard for the next few thrusts, and then Peter’s back arches so beautifully and he cries out, making a mess of the front of his panties. He’s shaking and his mouth falls open, the cry dying and he screams silently, tears streaming down his face. Steve looks down to see the front of the lingerie soaked, pearly white come dribbling down the crease of where Peter’s leg meets his hip. He groans and it only makes him want to go harder, but Peter’s sensitive now, so Steve decides to compromise and torture them both.

 

He slows himself down, gets gentler, though not enough to be a proper not enough (as in, slower than he needs but not so slow he cools down, effectively driving himself crazy), as Peter resolves to whimpering. He hiccups through his tears and his breathing stutters, so Steve kisses the boy’s jaw, needing to distract himself.

 

“...much, d-daddy it’s t-too much..” Peter whines, his voice barely audible. Steve bites his cheek, kissing Peter’s forehead.

 

“I know baby, I know, think you can handle more? Just a little longer sweetheart,” He says, failing to hide how wrecked he is in his voice. Peter whimpers, his eyes still held shut, but he nods. Steve smiles, because he was planning on continuing anyways (of course if Peter really wanted him to stop, he would, in a heartbeat he would, but he was planning on overstimulating him a little anyways, seeing if he can get the boy to come again without giving him time to calm down) but his boy is so sweet, such an angel. Of course he’ll hold out if Steve asks him to. Precious boy would do anything-- Steve’s so happy he and Tony got to him before someone who would take advantage of him.

 

“That’s my good boy. Just hang on, sweet thing, I promise it’ll feel good,” Steve assures him. It’s true. He’s going to be completely overwhelmed by how much the good _hurts_ , but it’ll be good. And after his need to come again overrides the over-stimulation, he’ll feel even better. Peter sniffles, but nods, biting his lip to try and hold back his whimpers as Steve continues to thrust into him.

 

The older man distracts himself by giving Peter more hickeys and whispering all the sweet praise he can come up with in the little boy’s ear, trying so hard to be slow and gentle. Eventually, though, he can’t do it anymore, the perfect tight, wet heat of Peter’s hole too appealing. He sees that his angel’s hard again, anyways, so he thinks he’s in the clear.

 

He picks up the pace, doing his best to work it up slowly. It doesn’t take long, though, before he’s slamming into Peter again.

Peter keens as Steve abuses his prostate, driving into the sensitive spot. It makes him clench down every time and Steve loves it, keeps doing it. His cock is on fire in the best way, straining with the need to come, enveloped in the heavenly pleasure of Peter’s ass. He licks at Peter’s nipples again, wanting to feel the way the boy jerks and bucks his hips in response.

 

Steve can feel the weight in his stomach, knows his orgasm is coming. He groans. Peter looks like an angel beneath him, soft skin gone almost slippery with sweat, some of his curls sticking to his forehead. His eyes are closed but once more, his face isn’t pinched up. He looks amenable (he is) and full of ecstasy (Steve can only imagine-- he’s not bragging, though), breathing scattered, milky skin flushed pink.

 

God, Steve wants him like this all the time.

 

All laid out on display under him, pretty, pale, _small_  body littered with hickeys, blushing so beautifully. Unruly hair splayed and adorable, doe eyes brimming with tears. Ruined panties, his little cock weeping, Steve buried inside him. Crying and moaning and not a care or worry in the world; nothing on his mind, feeling nothing but pleasure, focused only on how _good_  he feels and how _bad_  he wants to come.

 

Steve would keep him like this forever if he could.

 

Then again, maybe just the next few days would suffice.

 

Distantly, the older man thinks that the only thing that could make this better is if Tony were here. Steve moans low and rumbling, biting down on Peter’s neck for, shit, he doesn’t know what time that evening. He licks the spot, sucking, grazing again with his teeth and kissing the mark. Peter’s soft pleas and stream of ‘daddy’s picked up again, and he moans in between his babbles, squirming, trembling under Steve. It’s such a gorgeous sight, it drives Steve closer. He feels his hips stuttering, rhythm faltering. His muscles tense and his breathing becomes more ragged. He knows he’s getting close, so he picks up his pace even more.

  
  
Peter cries out at the increase, Steve’s fucking getting _rough_ , but amidst the plees Steve hears a faint, irregularly moaned ‘more’ (which, holy shit, that’s surprising) and it lets him know that Peter can handle it. He never expected himself to be so unrestrained and intense with the little boy (he knows Peter prefers it gentle, careful; he’s a sensitive kid, after all) but now that he knows the angel can take it, he’s thinking he might share this information with Tony.

 

God, Tony would _wreck_  him if he knew Peter can handle rough.

 

Right now, though, Steve’s just thinking about how he really wants to come.

 

So he pounds into Peter with almost completely unchecked force, his thrusts growing more and more irregular and jerky, until he knows the tremors in his stomach are about to explode, can feel his body going rigid with it. So he rams himself as deep as he can inside Peter one last time, and that’s it, it’s over. The action causes Peter to cry out, moaning ‘daddy!’, and Steve’s done for. It’s too hot and too tight and wet and perfect, and he comes, his cock pulsing. He feels the knot in his gut splintering through him, sharp and loud and incapacitating good. He comes with hot white strips, shooting far inside the angel below him, filling Peter up with his release.

 

Steve falls to his elbows above the boy, barely keeping himself from crushing him. His body feels weak and he tries to catch his breath, feeling his own come dribbling out of Peter’s hole. He doesn’t move for a while, nothing at all in the room shifting other than Peter’s little wiggles under him, reminding him of the boy’s need.

 

Steve breaks to collect himself, feeling satisfied and like all the tension from the week that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding is gone. When his heart isn’t pounding in his ears and he feels some of his strength and coordinance returning, he kisses Peter sweetly. The boy sighs, somewhere between content and needy, and it’s cute. Steve pushes himself up, then, slowly pulling out of his boy’s hole. Come and lube leak from Peter’s abused entrance and the boy winces. Maybe it’s the lewd sound, maybe it’s the sensitivity, probably both.

 

Despite knowing he stretched Peter enough, Steve takes a second, moving lower between the kid’s legs. He pulls the panties aside again, where they’re quickly becoming wet with Steve’s come, to check for tearing. And he knows logically that he shouldn’t find any, but seeing Peter alright (if red and puffy) is a relief anyways. He was rough; it’s good he didn’t hurt the delicate boy.

 

Smart as a whip, clever enough to  _argue_ with Tony and  _win the argument_ (which is fucking impressive), mature and generally a snarky little firecracker-- but delicate, nonetheless. 

 

Peter whines and squirms where he’s laying, and Steve looks up from his spot kneeling between his legs. The panties are soaked and ruined and Peter’s propped up slightly on his elbows, biting his lip, looking at Steve pleadingly. The man smiles sympathetically at him, rubbing the boy’s thighs.

 

“Lay down, baby. Daddy’s gonna make you feel good,” Steve says softly. Peter swallows hard (Steve’s eyes follow the action), but lays back down. “Good boy,” The older man praises, and Peter wiggles again. So responsive, Steve thinks. To touches and words. Perfect.

 

He drops his mouth down onto Peter’s inner thighs, kissing the sensitive place. He licks and nips at the soft expanse, before letting his mouth descend entirely and sucking a hickey onto precious skin. He adds another, and another, moving to the other thigh to do the same. He covers Peter’s legs in hickeys while the boy keens and gasps above him, wiggling, his arm thrown over his face, eyes covered by his elbow.  
  
When Steve decides he’s ravaged the kid’s sweet thighs enough, he pulls away and looks at Peter’s completely drenched panties. Come and precome alike dousing the silk, an overflow dribbling out from the trim, trickling down the creases of Peter’s thighs. It makes Steve feel tight and if he hadn’t just come crazy hard, the way his cock twitches might’ve signaled him getting hard again.

 

Without warning Peter at all, Steve opens his mouth and licks where he can see Peter’s poor little cock straining against the fabric. Peter yelps and jerks away at the action, but Steve holds his waist down, keeping him in place. He licks again, from the base of Peter’s length all the way up his shaft. The boy groans, squirming, his one hand scrambling to fist the blankets. Steve grins at how easily affected his baby is.

 

He lets saliva pool on his tongue to lick again, making sure he gets Peter’s panties so saturated with slick that the fabric can’t hold any more fluid-- the combination of Steve’s spit and the precome Peter’s leaking dripping down immediately, flowing to wet the bed. He licks along Peter’s shaft and mouths at his tip, pressing down and swirling his tongue the way he knows drives Peter crazy. He keeps it up, leaving wet kisses and massaging Peter’s straining cock with his tongue until the boy is almost sobbing above him.

 

And then he covers Peter’s tip with his mouth and _sucks_. Peter all but screams and his hips buck, but Steve keeps him down.

 

“S-Steve, I, p-please d-daddy, please-!” Peter cries, his chest moving frantically with his shaky breaths. Steve takes pity on him and god, he’ll never get tired of Peter’s sweet voice calling him that, begging him so prettily. He smiles up at the boy and kisses his tip, just to _feel_  the way precome gushes against his lips when he does, and speaks softly.

 

“Alright, baby, shh, daddy will help you, I’ll make it better.”

 

And then he drops his mouth and sucks again, only this time he doesn’t stop until Peter keens above him, his body shaking and back arching again, and Steve feels Peter’s come spilling out. Under the panties and out of the fabric, into Steve’s mouth, only adding to the already dripping, soaking wetness. He keeps sucking, helping Peter ride out his orgasm, holding his hips down as his body convulses and trembles.

 

When he finally comes down, the little boy collapses. He goes boneless and pliant on the bed, his chest heaving. Steve pulls away to lick his lips and smirk at the exhausted kid before him. Peter’s still shaking, slightly. Aftershocks. He’s still hiding his eyes in his elbow and clinging to the blankets with his other hand, his thighs quaking ever so slightly with the after-tremors of his climax. His body is flushed and completely littered with love bites, all creamy skin and the small, soft, satiated smile on his red bitten lips. And, _fuck_ , the literally dripping, lacy pink panties, soaked with their three combined orgasms, lube and precome and saliva, just emphasizing how fucked out and fucking _beautiful_  Peter looks.

 

Steve crawls back up over him, kissing his cheeks and chin and nose, nosing at his hair and temple.

 

“Easy baby boy, that’s it, there you go, come back to me now,” he whispers, kissing his cheekbone. Peter slowly removes his arm, revealing his puffy, gleaming, half-lidded eyes, tear streaks down the sides of his face. He gives Steve his beautiful little smile, conveying reassurance and satisfaction and gratification. Steve smiles back down at him, kissing his forehead, licking up the salty tears from his face.

 

“Did so good for me, honey, you did so good. Perfect, beautiful boy,” he coos, holding himself up with one hand so the other can comb through Peter’s hair. Peter closes his eyes to hum appreciatively, and Steve kisses him gently on the lips.

 

“Let’s get cleaned up now, yeah?” The older man asks after another minute or so. He really doesn’t want Peter falling asleep on the mess of sheets right now. Not that Steve would mind (or hasn’t done before) cleaning him up as he sleeps, but after how intense they just were, he’d prefer for the boy to be awake for the aftercare. Feel the soft, gentle love and affection he deserves after Steve pounded into him so roughly.

 

Peter nods, a small, hardly noticeable thing, and Steve sits himself up. He takes Peter’s hands, weakly offered to him, and pulls the boy into a sitting position as well. Steve slides off the bed and drags the kid into his arms, carrying him towards the bathroom. Peter leans on him while Steve fills up the tub with warm water, adding the sweet smelling drops of essence he knows will help relax the boy further. When it’s full, he helps Peter take off the panties, actively forcing himself not to lick the kid’s very sensitive cock clean of the come that sticks to it. Steve helps Peter into the tub, then slides in behind him, pulling the little boy flush to his chest.

 

He lets them sit for a while, relishing in the warm water, before he takes the softest wash cloth he has and starts to clean them up. He moves slowly, wiping and rinsing gently, guiding Peter’s body around as needed to make sure he washes away all the remains of their sex. When he’s sure they’re both bathed clear of come and lube and sweat, and Peter smells sweet (Steve supposes he probably smells similar-- same bath, after all), the older man pulls the plug, draining sudsy water.

 

He hauls himself and a half-asleep Peter out, drying them with a soft towel. Peter tries to take it from Steve while the man dries the boy’s hair, mumbling something, but Steve can’t understand him and assumes it was probably an attempt at independence, so he brushes it off. Tells Peter he’s cute, asks if he’s sleepy-- to which Peter nods yes.

 

He helps the younger into boxers and an oversized forest green sweater. The sweater is Tony’s, Steve knows, but the boxers are Peter’s. They just have some of his clothes at their house now, all the time. From when he leaves them on accident; whether he was wearing them before… things… or he brought extras to spend the night. A few science pun shirts, some jeans, a couple pairs of boxers. Probably eight different socks, none of which have a match.

 

It makes Steve and Tony feel things they won’t admit to the little boy yet. Ignites something passionately domestic and possessive in them; makes them want to have all of Peter’s clothes at their house. All of his everything. Him. All the time.

 

They won’t tell him that, though. Not yet.

 

When they’re dried and dressed, Steve scoops Peter into his arms again, carrying him back to the living room. There’s another discovery movie on, this one about some rain forest, it looks like. Steve turns the movie off and pulls up a playlist of some of his favorite 40’s music, setting the volume low. He sits down with Peter still in his arms, smiling contently when the boy curls up in his lap. He nuzzles his face, cute little nose, into Steve’s chest and neck, breathing in deep. Steve assumes he’s smelling something comforting. The boy’s legs are pulled up and tucked under Steve’s arm, his knees flush into the man’s side. One of Steve’s arms wraps around his bent legs, the other around his back, meeting to hold him loosely but secure. He pulls a blanket over, the thick one from before, surrounding Peter’s body with it.

 

The kid’s arms are folded up as he curls into himself, his hands against Steve’s chest. He smiles as the blanket is situated around him, snuggling further into Steve’s warmth and embrace.

 

“Mmm, thanks daddy,” he hums quietly, so soft Steve almost doesn’t hear it. It puts something warm and protective and good in the man’s lungs, so he noses at Peter’s hair, smelling that pure scent that’s entirely _Peter_ , and starts to rock the boy gently.

 

“You’re welcome, baby boy. Sleep well,” He whispers, kissing the top of Peter’s head. The kid smiles against him and cuddles more into Steve’s hold, humming in response. Steve watches his face fall soft and his breathing slow, feels his body go completely lax and he knows the boy’s asleep.

 

It’s that knowledge that he’s not awake, that no one’s there to hear, that he’s got this beautiful angel curled up in his lap, that lets Steve voice his thoughts. He smiles gently and kisses Peter’s forehead, sighing and relaxing into the cuddling.

 

“Love you, Pete.”

 

Steve hears Peter murmur in his sleep after that. If he imagines Peter saying it back (if he’s not imagining at all and that’s exactly what happened), well, no one needs to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmm, seems like chapters keep ending with Steve/Tony/Peter wanting to stay together and be more than fuck-buddies-who-are-kind-of-dating. 
> 
> Almost like that's the entire plot of the real fic extension of this au I'm writing. 
> 
> Weird. How strange. What a peculiar thing.
> 
> Also, I tried to convey in here at least a little that even though they get really into the ddlb (that's what we call it right) things here, Peter being super submissive to Steve (and Tony) doesn't make them think any less/smaller of him or /respect/ him any less; they know he's a capable adult and an intelligent person-- they just also do dom/sub sexy things.


	3. Three Minus One pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony both get a little one-on-one time with their favorite boy. 
> 
> Part Two: Steve goes upstate for an art gallery, and Tony gets a weekend alone with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m about to have a pretty chaotic two weeks, but I’m gonna try to keep tossing out content (fingers crossed) 
> 
> This + part one are in Tony/Steve’s perspectives, this part two from Tony’s pov, hope you enjoy ;)

Steve’s only been gone for a day, and Tony’s already restless.

 

His husband is eighty percent of his impulse control and ninety percent of his self restraint in general, and he feels excessively antsy without the man. Not to mention that Steve keeps him occupied. Like a small child or a hyper pet, Tony always needs something to put his attention into. Something to divert energy towards. Usually that falls to Steve, or his work. Tinkering. Building. Taking apart and rebuilding again. Few things are able to pacify the insufferable urge to _do_  in the back of his head, but his husband and his work fit the bill pretty perfectly.

 

Except Steve is upstate, getting ready for an art gallery to open that’s featuring his pieces, and Pepper has banned him from his _own goddamn building_  for “not sleeping enough” and “causing problems with management staff”.

 

Fucking ridiculous.

 

For a while being home alone was peaceful. Content. Relaxing. Tony lounged about and read a bit, caught the end of some thriller movie on tv, took a short nap. Relished in the uniquely freeing sense of being utterly alone, with no tasks or responsibilities to attend to.

 

That got old quick and after four hours he’d already taken apart and reconstructed the freezer.

 

Twice.

 

Tony’s in luck, though.

  
  
Because after he spent that horrible first day flashing between completely relaxed, terribly restless, and in varying degrees of missing Steve (my god, Tony’s like a goddamn puppy, hopelessly attached), Saturday arrived.

 

And Saturday means that Peter doesn’t have classes.

 

So Tony called him and of course the boy was so endearingly enthusiastic, as if he hadn’t seen Tony just a few days prior, as if he doesn’t see Tony and or Steve constantly. And he’d agreed to come over in a bit.

 

Tony finds himself excited, impatiently waiting for the quiet knock to the door he knew would come eventually. He bounces his knee from where he sits at the kitchen table, mulling over some blueprints, trying to convince himself he is a grown ass man who has at least _some_  control of himself.

 

The knocks finally arrive, two, hardly loud enough to hear, and then the door is opening.

 

It took some time, but the couple had been able to convince Peter that he can just walk right in. He still knocks though, his compromise, to let them know he’s there. He’s so polite. Even after the months they’ve known him.

 

A smile breaks onto Tony’s face and he stands up faster than he’ll admit to, making his way quickly to the small boy and pulling him into a hug. Peter hugs him back with the sweetest little giggle, pecking Tony on the cheek as he pulls away. His smile puts warm things in the older man’s chest.

 

“Hey, baby boy,” Tony grins, hands falling to Peter’s waist. The younger leans against him, fingers feeling the hair on the back of Tony’s head, his face tilted to the side with a little smirk on his lips. He looks so good; always looks so good.

 

“Hey Tony,” He says, voice like a vice in the inventor’s head. He drops lower to plant a kiss on Peter’s nose, then lick the same spot, making the kid laugh.

 

“So what’s the plan today?” Peter asks. He sways slightly and Tony finds it amusing.

 

“Was thinking we might go out, actually.” The man replies, kissing the boy’s forehead. Peter furrows his eyebrows.

 

“Where to?”

  
Tony smirks. “You’ll have to find out,” He says with a little flourish of his hand. Peter rolls his eyes but stands up on his tiptoes to kiss Tony lightly on the lips. Tony chases him as he pulls away, getting a longer, deeper kiss in before taking Peter’s hand and guiding him back to the door. He’d wanted to pick the boy up from his apartment (he and Steve always try to offer him rides-- doesn’t have a car of his own) but Peter’s been relentless in adamantly refusing. He’s like that with a few things.

 

Completely rejecting rides most of the time (unless it’s way too goddamn cold or raining and Steve butts heads with him until Peter gives in), rarely allowing Steve and Tony to pay for meals (which is why they started eating at home more and doing other things when they go out), and having a zero tolerance rule for offers to help pay his bills are the main ones. Of course the couple understand, give him space, respect his independence. They know he must feel, among guilty and spoiled, undermined from time to time by the husbands’ insistence to help him. They don’t mean to make him feel like they’re insinuating he’s incapable; they just can’t help it. Tony and Steve _want_  to take care of him-- but below that, they just want him to be ok. Using their own money and resources to assist and pamper people as a show of affection is something both men have gotten into a habit of. A habit that they have to break for Peter, sometimes.

 

It’s a little impressive and a little endearing and makes them feel a little proud, if they’re honest, but they desperately wish he’d learn to depend on other people sometimes. On _them_.

 

That’s another thing they’ll just have to work on.

 

Since Peter would not be picked up from his home and Tony knows himself well enough to know he would’ve spoiled the plans for the day if he’d tried to convince the boy--they leave together from the Stark-Rogers house, thick coats and scarves. And mittens, for Peter, because his hands were chilly and red when he got to Tony, so the older man had made sure the boy put on some thick knitted mittens and a nice hat (Steve’s hat. Looks good on both of them) before they left.

 

He guides Peter by the arm down the sidewalk, taking them to their surprise destination. He keeps the boy distracted with talk about Bruce Banner’s latest essay and what’s the best broadway musical until they’re standing in front of a museum Tony’s pretty sure Peter’s never heard of.

 

The boy lights up with excitement, though, when he sees the poster for the exhibit on first prototypes and experiments in chemical engineering.

 

They spend almost three hours in the building, Peter’s unending enthusiasm and the interesting exhibit a wave of relief from how (unwarrantedly) stir crazy Tony was going. After the museum, they take a walk around the block to watch a street performer and stroll through the park. They eat lunch in a small grill restaurant and waste as much time as they can inside the little attached arcade. Peter wins the pinball game every time, but Tony beats him at foosball.

 

It starts to get cloudy and colder around three in the afternoon, and Peter's nose is red and cold to the touch when Tony kisses it, so the older man decides to call it a day. He wraps his arm around Peter's small shoulders and pulls him in close, Peter's arm finding its way around Tony's back as they walk.

  
  
"I was letting you win so you'd feel better about yourself," The boy huffs as they walk through the door and into the warmth of Tony's house.

  
  
"Mhm, sure, right. I completely believe you," Tony muses, hanging their jackets on coat hooks. Peter gives him a pointed look.

  
  
"I'm sensing some sarcasm. Roll back the sass, Tones," the smaller boy glares. Tony smirks, poking him in the side. It makes Peter jump and jab Tony back in the ribs, both of them jerking away from each other, trying not to laugh. And Peter looks so cute when he's trying to be mad and just _can't_  be, so Tony _has_  to grab him by the sleeve of his sweater and pull him close, his other hand attacking. He goes after Peter's sides, around his hips, and Peter shrieks, nearly jumping half a foot into the air and squirming to get away.

  
  
That's nothing but encouragement to Tony, who pulls him back tighter and digs his hand into Peter's armpit. The small boy laughs uncontrollably, wiggling desperately, yelping out 'stop!'s and 'Tony!'s that get cut off and shake in his throat as Tony tickles him. Peter pulls hard, putting all his weight into getting away, and it takes them to the floor.

  
  
Tony braces their fall with the hand that had been tickling the boy, and they both shout as they fall. Peter seems to think that it's over now that they're collapsed on the wood panels, but Tony doesn't give him a second to catch his breath before he worms his other hand under the boy's sweater and goes after his ribs. Peter yelps and kicks out to no avail, trying to push Tony off and squirm away, but it's no use.

  
  
There are tears in his eyes and his cheeks are pink (not from the cold anymore), and he looks adorable, Tony thinks, trying to breathe through the laughing. Tony's laughing, too, delighted by his attack.

  
  
"T-Tony I ca-an't brea-eathe-!" Peter wheezes, attempting to curl in on himself to rid his body of Tony's hand. The older man finally relents, not removing his hand from the warmth under Peter's sweater but ending his assault. The kid gasps for breath, aftershocks of laugh still shaking his body. Tony chuckles too, loving the way Peter looks and sounds when he laughs.

 

Only when he's letting the boy recollect his breath does he pay attention enough to notice the position they're in. Peter curled up under Tony, his arms wrapped around himself and a knee pulled up. Tony has one knee between Pete's legs, one hand under the side of the boy's sweater, his other planted beside the boy's head.

  
  
And because of who Tony is as a person, he supposes, with the already flushed, pretty boy under him-- he can't help himself.

  
  
He pushes his knee into Peter's crotch and rubs his lower thigh in between the boy's legs.

  
  
Peter jolts at the action and groans breathily. It sends a shiver up Tony's spine and he repeats the movement with a little more pressure, just to hear Peter gasp and sigh.

 

“Tonyyy,” Peter quietly whines it like a warning, one which only serves to motivate the older man. He continues kneading his knee, shifting them so Peter’s all the way on his back and Tony can run his hand over the boy’s chest. He feels Peter’s pert nipples hardening as he rubs his leg into the boy’s crotch and ghosts his fingers over the pink numbs. Peter’s breath hitches, and he swallows heavily.

 

Tony’s eyes follow the action hungrily. He’s getting hard just like this and wants to bite down on that sweet, stubble neck. Peter’s eyes are hooded and his lips are parted and he’s so obviously trying to control his breathing. He’s so cute, Tony thinks. The man wants more. Wants Peter to wither under him, wants to hear him moan. Wants friction on his own half hard cock and to feel Peter’s on his.

 

So without any warning, he removes his knee and brings his other leg between Peter’s, scooting close to the boy, making Peter spread his legs wide to accommodate. And then Tony’s fingers find one nipple to pinch ever so lightly and he grinds his hips down.

 

Peter loses his breath but when he catches it it’s a broke, bitten back moan.

 

It brings a self satisfied grin to Tony’s face, but, that might also be the glorious friction he’s creating for his own cock now. He grinds again, slow, rolling his hips and setting up a rhythm. Peter wriggles underneath him, releasing lazy, content sighs at the feeling and the pace. It strikes something in Tony, the sensation he feels in his stomach when he or Steve give Peter that slow, but not agonizingly so, pleasure. As hot as it gets Tony to see Peter crying and trembling with desperation, begging to come, the man can’t deny how hard he becomes seeing Peter experience the languid, unhurried, almost _serene_  type of good. Seeing him bit his lip, but lightly, slowly dragging it out from under his teeth, his eyes closed but his face relaxed, his body pliant with a more gratifying kind of pleasure.

 

It’s different from the type of turned on Tony gets when Peter’s needy. It makes his cock feel heavier and drives sensations into him, igniting this _something_  that for whatever reason makes him want to lick Peter’s neck and make him come easy-- without the tension, just the pleasure. Wants it to roll off the boy in a wave of satisfaction.

 

Of course, Tony’s probably physically incapable of _not_  teasing Peter, at least a little bit, so he lets the lazy grinding last for as long as it can before it starts to build more intensity. Until Tony can feel Peter’s pulse picking up and his breathing starts to become broken, and he whimpers when the older man drags a finger across his nipple.

 

“You like that, pretty boy?” He asks, nudging against the sensitive nub, just so he can watch Peter jerk slightly at the action. The boy nods, wetting his lips, looking up at Tony with those beautiful, barely opened eyes. Tony does it again, sliding his finger over the nipple, circling and then pinching it. He feels Peter’s hips rising to meet his and the boy’s chest pushing up, and he knows the kid’s back is arching shakily. Peter’s hands are wound up in Tony’s shirt, clinging to the fabric with a tightness that betrays how turned on he is. Tony grinds down, harder this time, rolling his hips into the small boy’s.

 

“Ah-hh-ahh-” The action draws a shaky, breathy moan from Peter’s mouth. Tony closes his eyes and lets his head droop, directing all his focus into feeling the way he’s dragging his now fully hard length against Peter’s.

  
  
Tony keeps it up for some time, he’s not entirely sure how long, before Peter’s hands are twitching against his chest and the boy’s body is moving in rigid jerks. His eyes are squeezed closed and he’s biting his lip, pretty chestnut curls falling over his forehead. He groans, high and whiny, and Tony basks in the sound.

 

“T-Tony, I’m gonna…” Peter trails off, his cheeks burning. Tony imagines he’s a little too mortified at the concept of coming in his pants from Tony dry humping him to admit that that’s exactly what’s about to happen. The older man picks up the half warning, though, and pulls away. Peter’s eyes shoot open and his face is something like confusion and relief, and pinched ever so slightly in disappointment. That’s not a problem. Tony’s going to replace that expression with one of pure ecstasy soon.

 

Instead of offering an explanation, the older man works at the button and zipper of Peter’s jeans, tugging away his pants and boxers in one quick, fluid motion. Peter yelps at the sudden exposure and presses his legs together, hands pushing against Tony’s chest in surprise and most definitely embarrassment. Tony admires the erect, little pink cock flush against Peter’s stomach while he removes his own pants. He doesn’t bother with his button down or Peter’s sweater, knowing they won’t really be a problem. He does undo the buttons of his shirt, though, and pushes Peter’s sweater up to his collar bones to expose the creamy expanse of his torso. Then without answering Peter’s unasked questions, Tony’s reaching for the end table by the couch.

 

The older man is grateful they fell close to a lube supply. The sooner he’s got his very hard cock inside this boy, the better.

 

“Easy, relax now, sweetheart,” He soothes, popping the cap and coating two fingers. Peter watches him move intently, lip caught between his teeth, squirming where he lays. The anticipation is radiating off the small boy and Tony loves it, loves how eager he is despite his perpetual nervousness. Tony drops down to kiss him, at the same time circling Peter’s pretty pink rim. He coats the tight muscle in cool slick, soothing the shaking boy and kissing his cheekbones. He nips Peter’s ear, just to feel the kid arch against him and gasp, and then slowly pushes his finger in.

 

Tony takes it slow and gentle, always does, only easing up to the first knuckle and waiting, peppering Peter’s face with kisses before moving deeper. Peter sighs and shifts beneath him, his arms having wound around Tony’s neck. Tony watches the way his chest rises and falls, how his stomach tenses, his hips bucking up slightly. The older man gets his finger in to the base and waits, nosing at Peter’s jaw. He twists and curls slightly, pushing up against Peter’s walls, carefully coating his insides in lube. When Peter can’t suppress a whimper in Tony’s ear, he takes it as a good sign to cautiously add the second finger.

 

Peter’s head rolls back and his eyes fall closed as Tony slowly slides in the second digit, eventually joining the first in being fully buried inside the boy. The older man lets him adjust to the thickness (Peter never does seem to get used to being fingered or fucked; always tenses up so much, always needs plenty of time to relax; Steve and Tony always patient and happy to oblige) before slowly pulling the fingers out and sliding them back in.

 

He pumps in and out for a while and adds a bit more lube before he starts scissoring the boy, Peter moaning quietly. The soft, breathy sounds the spill from the small boy’s lips as Tony stretches him are music to the man’s ears. He licks the shell of Peter’s ear, kissing his temple and down the side of his face, finding his mouth and swallowing up the sighs. Tony curls his fingers slightly, massaging the boy’s insides, before pushing in deep and pressing. He finds the place he’s looking for and Peter cries out, a beautifully high pitched whimper that he cuts short, his pleasantly pink cheeks turning cherry red.

 

Tony can’t help but smirk at his shyness, dragging the pads of his fingers across the spot again. Peter groans, or tries to, but it turns into a needy, almost distressed moan when Tony continues to rub against his prostate, putting more pressure on the point.

 

“That your sweet spot, honey?” Tony can’t stop himself from teasing, mesmerized by how Peter’s curls sweep across his forehead when he turns his head to the side, cringing in on himself slightly, eyes squeezed tight and biting his lip. Tony strokes the boy’s prostate with a steady rhythm, making sure to press directly on it with just enough pressure to make Peter keen.

 

“You feel good, baby? Feel good when I touch you here?” Tony emphasizes his words by rubbing harder on the boy’s sweet spot, slowing slightly and pushing more and making Peter gasp and whimper.

 

“Y-yes-” He tries to answer but can hardly get the word out as Tony assaults his prostate. He shudders beneath the older man, sucking in his tummy and his back arching. He opens his lovely, gleaming doe eyes to look at Tony pleadingly, trying to release a shaky breath before it becomes another soft moan.

 

Tony smiles down at the sweet boy, kissing him tenderly on the lips before mouthing down his chin and neck. He finds a place just above the kid’s collar bones to suck on, working a hickey onto the milky, unblemished skin.

 

The older man continues massaging Peter’s prostate, enticing the pretty moans and needy whimpers that he loves so much, while he marks the boy’s upper chest. When he pulls away to study Peter’s adorably flustered face, he glances down between them. Both of their cocks are flushed gleaming at the tips; Peter’s weeping precome and twitching in anguish, desperate for attention. Tony decides to take pity on him, kissing him one more time on the lips before adjusting his knees and sitting up some to brace himself better. Then he takes his free hand and reaches between them, giving himself a few relieving strokes and taking a loose hold of Peter.

 

The boy’s poor neglected cock leaks precome profusely, spasming at Tony’s touch. Tony grins down at the boy below him, Peter having released his hold around the older man’s neck, his arms splayed beside him, elbows bent, fists clenching beside his head so hard that his knuckles are white. He gasps and shudders, groaning when Tony starts to stroke.

 

The older man takes it slow, taking time to relish in the feeling of Peter’s little cock in his hand, soft and small and wet. He glides his hand up and down the boy’s shaft, flicking his wrist at the head and making Peter whine, trying (and failing) to stop himself from arching into the touch.

 

Tony teases him for a while, until Peter’s trembling and gasping out broken ‘please’s and ‘Tony’s. It’s only when the older man decides his boy’s had enough that he increases his pace to actually satisfying. He massages Peter’s prostate and pumps his length faster, harder, rubbing his tip on every stroke. Peter’s attempts to conceal his moans fail entirely now, unable to stop his body’s reaction. His hips buck clumsily, unable to decide between pushing against Tony’s fingers or into his hand, his arms moving restlessly, head thrown back.

 

Tony works him more intensely, building him up much faster than he normally would for the purely selfish reason that Tony wants to fuck him as soon as possible. Peter keens at Tony’s ministrations, his breathing becoming more erratic and quick until his back arches high, his pretty, bitten lips parting in a silent cry. He comes hard, his body going stiff and all his muscles tensing. His eyebrows furrow and Tony watches his stomach clench, his legs jumping up to cage Tony and tightening their grip against the man. Hot white come erupts over Tony’s fist and Peter’s own tummy, and Tony watches, mesmerized, as the streams of release paint the boy’s pretty skin.

 

When he regains his breath, Peter lets out a ruined sounding sigh, panting for air. He wets his lips, his body falling lax on the floor, legs going boneless around Tony. The older man sighs, chuckling slightly. Peter always comes so hard; Tony’s never seen him have an orgasm that wasn’t incapacitating. It does things for the mechanic’s already high ego, knowing that he and his husband can destroy the sweet boy so well. Make him feel so intensely, so violently, that every climax leaves him trembling and exhausted.

 

Not to say he isn’t up for more after, though.

 

In fact, he often is capable of going again. As long as there’s a brief cool down period, Peter can continue being fucked and pleasured through a couple orgasms. (Though of course there are times, frequently if Tony’s honest, where the sweet angel is utterly destroyed by his first climax. They’ve played around with overstimulation some, but for the most part Peter can only handle it before he comes, the agony of working up to it, but is usually too sensitive after to be stimulated without a break).

 

Tony’s counting on that now.

 

He rubs Peter’s tummy as the boy catches his breath, not mentioning it but distracting himself from his very, _very_  hard cock by smearing the come on his hand and the kid’s belly around his skin. When Peter finally opens his eyes and looks at Tony with a goofy, content expression, Tony smiles back at him. He kisses the boy sweetly, letting Peter initiate deepening it, but taking control once he does. The older man slips his tongue into the boy’s mouth, tasting the wet canvas inside. As he does, Peter winds his arms back around Tony’s neck and the mechanic wraps one arm under and around his baby’s back.

 

Without warning, Tony pulls him up, maneuvering them so Peter’s kneeling in front of Tony. He keeps pulling him up and kissing him harder and for a moment, just a moment, they’re both standing. And then Tony grabs Peter behind his thighs and hikes him up. Peter yelps, but wraps his legs around Tony’s waist, the older man’s boner and Peter’s quickly hardening cock trapped between their stomachs, pressed together, squeezed between skin. It makes both of them groan and Tony spins them around, nearly slamming Peter into a wall (he braced them, of course he did) and attacking his mouth.

 

“Steve told me about your night together, when I left for my trip a while back,” Tony begins, dropping his head to mouth at Peter’s neck. He’s slipped his hands under the boy, each hand cupping an asscheek to hold the boy up. He’s so light-- Tony wonders vaguely in the back of his mind if the angel is eating enough. He should ask.

 

“Yeah?” Peter’s voice is breathy. Tony loves it, loves how easily affected he is.

 

“Mhm… told me he fucked you pretty hard… roughed you up a little bit,” Tony speaks in between bites and kisses. Peter groans, so susceptible to the way Tony talks.

 

“Uh-huh,” he confirms, swallowing thickly. Tony feels the action under his lips and bites down at the base of Peter’s throat, sucking a dark, large hickey there before continuing.

 

“What’d you think? Think you liked it? Think you can take it rough, baby boy?” He asks. Peter moans under Tony’s teeth, his hands tightening in Tony’s hair. Not so much it hurts, though.

 

“Y-yeah, I can take it,” Peter whispers. Tony smiles. He knows the boy prefers it gentle, such a delicate little thing, but knowing that Peter’s open to and comfortable with a little variety is exciting. Not that Tony wouldn’t have been completely content fucking the boy slow and tender forever, but the idea that he can completely _destroy_  the boy has Tony pulling Peter’s cheeks apart and slipping one finger back inside.

 

“You sure?” Tony asks into the boy’s neck. Peter nods enthusiastically, whimpering at the intrusion of the finger at this angle. Surprisingly, in the couple months they’ve been at this, they’ve never fucked this way before. Held up, pressed against a wall. If he wasn’t achingly hard already, Tony sure as hell would be now.

 

“Really think so, honey? Want to try it out again? Want me to fuck you hard?” The older man grunts, dragging his teeth across soft skin. Peter whimpers and nods again, and Tony can feel the boy’s heart about to beat out of his chest.

 

“Please,” He whimpers, and Tony smirks.

 

“Ok baby, I’ve got you, I’ll make you feel good sweetheart,” he promises, wetly kissing one of the hickey’s he’d made. He holds Peter’s body away from him enough for his cock to slip out from between them, and then he pulls the boy against him, holding him up with one arm around his waist so his other hand can guide his cock. He brings the tip to Peter’s entrance and rubs around the tight hole for a moment, smearing precome and letting the boy prepare himself, before pushing the head inside. Peter moans, starting low but quickly growing high and he throws his head back. It exposes his pretty neck and Tony has to bite down again on another smooth patch of skin as he adjusts his hands to hold Peter’s ass again.

 

He lowers the boy slowly, pushing him against the wall harder to keep him in the air. Peter’s legs are wound tight around Tony’s waist, his heels digging into the small of Tony’s back, making the man groan and fill the boy a bit faster. Peter sighs, a heavy, feminine sound when Tony bottoms out. It’s impossibly tighter in their position, where Peter’s body’s natural instinct is to tense and clench as he tries to hold himself up, Peter’s walls squeezing just right. It’s hot and would be wetter if Tony had lubed up, but Peter’s already slick from the stretching and by now Tony’s cock had been leaking precome, so the slide in is still smooth regardless. It feels perfect, _Peter_  feels perfect, and Tony groans deep in his chest.

 

Peter’s trying to control his breathing and Tony can feel the boy’s small chest panting against his own and he smirks at how wrecked the boy already is.

 

“I’m going to ruin you, pretty boy, ruin you,” the older man all but growls, and he snaps his hips forward to emphasize. The action sends him impossibly deeper into Peter’s tight heat and virtually shoves the boy against the wall. His baby releases something between a moan and a shriek, his mouth falling open wide and his grip on Tony pulling the man closer.

 

“F-fuck,” Peter’s voice doesn’t seem to be working for him very well, and he bites his lip and groans as Tony drags himself out as much as he can. He thrusts back in, _hard_ , and Peter cries out, his body already shaking. Tony thinks he must’ve hit the boy’s prostate again, because he positively _gushes_  precome at the action, slicking up both of their stomachs where his little cock is trapped between them.

 

It spurs Tony on and right away he sets up a brutal pace. He hammers into the boy, driving into him, impelling him against the wall with every thrust. Peter’s ass has never been tighter around him, clenching around his cock with that intoxicating heat. Tony knows he won’t last like this, especially with the boy moaning and yelping so prettily in his ear, unable to control the way his body responds to Tony’s actions. It’s adorable and endearing, and it only makes the older man want to fuck him harder. Fuck more of those delicious sounds out of him.

 

Tony buries his face in the crook of the angel’s neck, biting down hard. Peter’s hiccuping and nearly wailing with every snap of Tony’s hips, each motion pushing him roughly into the wall and nailing his prostate. Tony grunts as every jerk delves his cock into the boy’s heavenly hole, and he moans at the pleasure he can feel pulsing through him.

 

Peter’s crying now, Tony sees the tear streaks down his cheeks when he pulls away from the boy’s neck to kiss him. Peter kisses so needily, the whimpers falling from his mouth sounding wrecked already. Tony knows he must be in the headspace now, which only serves to make him fuck his boy harder, faster. Knowing the sweet angel is completely dependent on him now, abandoning coherent thought (and all the anxieties that come with it) for the pleasure Tony’s giving him-- it drives the older man. He slams into Peter particularly hard and the boy screams, morphing into a whine, broken as a sob forces its way out of his chest.

 

“T-Tony, p-please, please-” Peter babbles, his breathing choppy. His sweater has fallen half way down his torso, stopped only by Tony’s body being pressed up against his. Distantly, Tony wonders if he’s getting come on the clothing, but he thinks Peter probably couldn’t care less. The flush on Peter’s face has spread down his neck and disappears under his collar and Tony hopes he’s not getting too hot.

 

“I’ve got you, honey, I’ve got you, you’re taking it so well, sweetheart,” the older man promises, kissing along the boy’s jaw and cheeks, licking through his streaks of tears before finally kissing him on the lips. Bitten and swollen, Peter’s lips are still the softest, most delectable treat. Tony explores the boy’s mouth, tasting his sweet tongue.

 

Peter moans into the kiss, letting Tony swallow up the debauched sounds the man forces out of him with each thrust. God, everything is so hot and Tony’s head is swimming, everything in the world reduced to Peter. Nothing exists but this boy, the angel clinging to him as Tony fills him up. Fuck. Peter, everything about him, delicate little body pinned to the wall, lithe legs wrapped around the older man, his beautiful hair framing his perfect face, blushing pink and his _moaning_  purely pornographic.

 

Tony wants to take him apart and put him back together, and that’s exactly what he’s doing.

 

The heat and pressure only seem to grow the more Tony pounds into Peter, hammering his prostate, making him cry out with every motion, broken sobs tearing out of him. Tony can feel the fire in his blood boiling, the pit of his stomach growing heavier and bubbling up, electric pulses of pleasure so good they _ache_  coming in waves from his cock. He knows he won’t last much longer and he’s ready to adjust, move one hand between them to jerk off Peter, but the boy starts babbling warnings to him.

 

“T-Tonyyy, I, I’m-” the angel sobs, and when Tony looks to see his movements forcing Peter’s cock to rub between their stomach, he realizes Peter’s already close.

 

“That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good. So good, sweetheart, you can let go, you can come, precious boy,” Tony says, his voice husky and deep and wavering with his thrusts. He moves so he’s holding Peter up with one hand under his ass and the boy’s own limbs clinging to him, reaching his other hand up between their bodies.

 

He pushes the hand under Peter’s sweater, his soft, pretty skin smooth with perspiration. Swollen pink nipples meet his fingers, and Tony takes one hard nub, pinching, knowing the pleasure will feel sore and painfully good. Another spurt of precome dribbles out in addition to the constant weeping of Peter’s cute little cock at the action and he gasps. Tony does it again, pinching and nudging and toying with the sensitive nipples while increasing the pace of his thrusts. Peter keens and his sweet sounds get louder, more needy, his body quivering violently as he holds himself tight to Tony.

 

The older man groans. As Peter gets closer, the sounds he makes and how much tighter he gets bring Tony closer too. He feels like he’s burning in the best possible way and he loves it, loves it, but _fuck_  does he want to come. He can’t imagine how desperate Peter must feel (enough to be choking on sobs and endless streams of moaning).

 

The end sneaks up on them both. Peter’s cock rubbing between them, the way Tony’s slamming into him and assaulting his sweet spot, sending bolds of achingly good pleasure through him from his nipples, the sweet praise Tony’s groaning into his ear-- it all becomes too much. With one long cry, broken by Tony’s thrusts, the little boy comes. Creamy release explodes in streaks up both of their stomachs and chests, staining his sweater. His body would convulse if he isn’t pressed so tight to Tony, the older man’s posture keeping him still. His back arches and his mouth drops in what’s damn near a scream, his arms and legs bringing Tony tight against him. Tony can see the boy’s body going rigid and removes his hand from between them to wrap it around Peter’s back, pulling their torso’s flush together.

 

Tony thinks that Peter might black out there for a second, but he can’t tell, because his face is buried in the boy’s shoulder and Peter’s orgasm makes everything; the heat, the tightness, all reach their peaks. It’s the perfect amount of too much and Tony groans low, his rhythm dying and his hips stuttering. He thrusts in only a few more times before his climax is torn from him and he feels the ecstacy busting inside him, exploding from his cock and stomach. He fills Peter with his come, hot white semen shooting deep inside the boy as he pulls the kid impossibly closer.

 

At first, they don’t move at all. Slouch against the wall and just breathe, trying desperately to make their lungs work like normal. Peter hides his face in the crook of Tony’s neck and the older man can tell he’s having a hard time getting his tears to stop, but he won’t say anything. He just holds the trembling boy in his arms, he himself not sure how he’s standing but knows if he tries to move he’ll undoubtedly collapse.

 

“You did so good, baby, so good, took it so well, sweetheart,” He husks out, voice not quite up to speaking just yet.

 

They stay in the same position for a few minutes, clinging to each other and evening their breathing. Tony knows Peter won’t be able to stand, so when he thinks the strength and control have probably returned to his legs, he pulls the boy off the wall and walks them slowly to the couch.

 

Tony doesn’t bother setting Peter down; just sits on the cushions and brings the boy with him. Peter unwinds his legs enough to fold them at his sides, caging Tony’s thighs and straddling the man’s lap as they sit. Tony’s softening length is still inside Peter, but for now, they don’t care. They just breath, Peter’s sobs slowly but surely calming, the flow of his tears growing dry. Tony rubs soothing circles on his back, under the sweater, his other hand still wrapped tight around the boy’s waist, holding him close.

 

Eventually Peter stops crying and his breathing evens out, and Tony is able to pull himself out. They both wince at the action, over sensitive, but Peter sighs in relief when he can properly collapse against the older man. Tony can’t suppress a soft laugh as the small boy snuggles against him, and he wraps both arms around Peter’s back, just holding him.

 

“You were perfect for me, so perfect, sweet boy. Always so perfect,” Tony whispers, nuzzling against the side of Peter’s head. Even after intense, sweaty sex, Peter’s hair still smells sweet like his shampoo. He can feel the boy smile against his neck and peck the skin there. It makes Tony smile, and he kisses Peter’s temple.

 

“What do you say we get cleaned up now, hm?” He offers. Peter nods weakly against him, giving a soft, adorable sound of approval. Tony picks him up under the thighs again, standing slowly with the boy in his arms once again. He walks them to the bathroom, tossing a towel onto the toilet and letting Peter sit there. As he drops the boy, the kid lets out a little squeak and winces, and Tony looks at him with concern before realization dawns.  

 

“You can handle rough, huh?” He teases, turning on the faucet for the shower. He thinks a bath would probably be better for Peter not being able to stand, but a shower is faster, and he knows they could both use a nap. Peter narrows his eyes at him, but his face is so relaxed and sleepy that he just looks cute. Tony tells him as much, kissing his nose and pulling his sweater over his head.

 

The older man discards his own shirt, then, both of them now entirely naked, before wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist and guiding him into the shower. They rinse quickly but bask in the warm water, Tony taking a soft cloth and cleaning away the sweat and come and lube.

 

"How you feeling, sweet pea? Didn't hurt you, did I?" Tony asks softly, pressing light kisses to his boy's forehead. 

 

“Nnn… no... y-you didn’t h-hurt me, ‘m ok..” Peter's voice sounds  _wrecked_ , perfectly so. It's quiet and wavers and Tony smiles, so pleased with himself. 

 

"You sure, baby?" He continues. He studies the small boy's body as he washes him, despite Peter's little nod, and kneels down for a moment to check his hole. It's red and puffy and and no doubt sensitive as hell, but there's no outer tearing, and he doesn't feel any inside when he washes away the remains of lube and come. He wasn't really expecting anything, but it's a relief nonetheless. Tony would've kicked his own ass if he'd hurt Peter. When he stands back up, the boy's cherry red and still manages to look embarrassed, despite being three seconds from passing out. Tony gives him a reassuring smile, kissing him softly, speaking quietly against the boy's lips, "Just making sure, sweetheart."

 

He washes Peter’s hair for him, and when he’s satisfied that they’re clean, he shuts off the water. Peter allows Tony to dry him (a rare feat; usually Steve or Tony do dry/help dry the boy, but typically he’ll protest and try unsuccessfully to do it himself-- poor thing’s always so sleepy after) and they dress in sweatpants and sweaters; soft, warm clothing meant for winter naps.

 

Tony carries Peter bridal style to the bedroom when they’re all done, laying him gently on the bed. The boy instantly stretches out and curls back up, snuggling into the pillows. Tony can’t count how many times Peter’s told them, casually or in his sleepy post-orgasmic haze, how comfortable their bed is. Tony knows its irrational and Peter would never let them, but he wants to get him a mattress just like theirs. And blankets with high thread counts, and fluffier pillows. Peter would never, ever let them even suggest such a thing though. And really, if Tony’s being honest, his first thought to respond to ‘your bed is comfy’ isn’t even ‘let me buy you one’, its ‘you should just sleep in our’s all the time then’.

 

Because, really, that _is_  what he wants. Peter in his and Steve’s bed. Every night. Always.

 

Tony chuckles at the boy’s actions, crawling in after him. He collapses beside the angel, pulling the covers away and over them. He snakes his arms around Peter’s waist, dragging the boy back against him. Peter giggles and turns in his hold, facing Tony and splaying his hands on Tony’s chest.

 

“You were amazing, baby. Get some rest now,” Tony whispers. Peter smiles at him, that sweet, sweet smile, and pushes himself up enough to kiss Tony on the nose. The older man right about dies from how cute it is, and has to restrain himself from kissing Peter hard and intense, claiming his mouth the way he now wants to.

 

“You too,” Peter whispers back, his droopy eyes already closing. Tony’s not sure if he means that to the ‘you were amazing’ or the ‘get some rest’ parts, but if he knows Peter (he does), the boy meant both. It puts a grin on Tony’s face and he cuddles the angel closer, kissing his forehead and taking in the scent of his hair.

 

Peter snuggles up against the man, tucking himself against Tony’s chest and breathing deep breaths. The mechanic can feel the boy falling asleep as he does, can feel his body growing more and more pliant, his breathing evening and slowing.

 

He looks down at the angel in his arms and he wants to say it, but he doesn’t think they boy’s all the way asleep and he knows he’s not ready to hear it out loud, so Tony settles for closing his eyes, letting sleep come for him as well, and thinking it.

 

_Sleep well, Peter. Love you_

 

And if Peter is not definitely not asleep yet and definitely thinking the same thing?

 

Well.

 

That’s a conversation for a different day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The three of them should start a club called "dumbasses who won't admit they're in love with each other" 
> 
> I reeeeaaaally wanna get started on the full plotty fic for this series but I'm So Busy for the next two weeks and I also have So Many Other Things I want to write
> 
> yikes anywhoways I hope you enjoyed that mega unbeta'd filth that didn't turn out as good as I wanted it to be so I might edit/update it at some point
> 
> thanks for reading babes <3


	4. Peter Has A Cold (It Might Be The Flu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is dying a horrible death.
> 
> Or, Peter gets sick. Steve and Tony to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a lot shorter than usual and there’s no smut in it, just some pure, domestic sickfic fluff
> 
> Also, not specific to this chapter but generally in the Collar Full au:  
> So I’m writing the longer, more plotty fic and here’s what I’ve got for you; 1. I’m gonna write the whole thing (not sure how long it’ll be yet) and then post the chapters after I’ve edited them some (there’s still gonna be mistakes tho, we been known). 2. Turns out I’m really not good at stories so it’s not even going to be a porn with plot kind of thing, it’s gonna be like, 80% porn and 20% angst. Mostly just sex and feelings and sometimes fluff. Smut with an end goal. So. Hope that’s not disappointing to anyone. 
> 
> That said, thanks so much for reading, lovely people, and I hope you enjoy <3

Peter's pretty sure he's dying.

  
  
Everything is too hot and too cold and his head hurts like hell, pounds behind his temples and his eyes are too heavy to be open but burn when they're closed. He feels sore all over and all his joints and muscles ache. He's sweaty but there’s a chill in his bones and his throat's kind of scratchy, and if moves too fast his head will throb and his stomach gets little butterflies of nausea in it.

  
  
Generally, everything sucks and he wants to throw himself off a cliff.

  
  
Or take a really long nap.

  
  
He's pretty much stranded himself in his bed, and he feels gross because he hasn't showered in a couple of days. He can practically _feel_  the germs in his blankets and the trash can by his bed is full of snotty tissues but he can't do anything about it because everything hurts. He's hungry, too; he hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday (since the threats of nausea began), and pretty sure he’s dehydrated.

  
  
God, Peter feels fucking _awful_.

  
  
It’s the passionate need for water that finally drives him out of bed. He sits up and his head spins, so he clings to the bed as he rolls himself off. His pulse is hammering in his temples and it hurts like hell. Peter braces himself against the wall, leaning heavily to help with his jelly legs. When he finally makes it the rather short distance to his kitchen, he nearly collapses into a chair at the table. Everything hurts and he _hates_  it so much.

 

Water calls to him, and glaring pointless daggers at the sink for being so far away, the boy hauls himself up from the chair and practically flings himself against the counter. His hands are clammy and that bugs him too, so he turns the water to what he hopes is lukewarm and holds his palms under it. It feels nice and he keeps his hands in place until he needs the water too bad.

 

He dries his hands quickly on a scratchy kitchen towel that’s seemed fine before but now feels rough against his sensitive skin. Peter pays it little mind, grabbing the nearest clean cup and filling it up.

 

Water is a blessing, truly a blessing, and Peter wants to thank the universe for it. He downs two glasses and is half way through a third when he notices his phone on the counter. He didn’t realize he’d left it out. Curiously, he powers it up, and his eyebrows furrow at the stream of notifications.

 

Alternating from Steve and Tony’s phones since Friday night (has his phone been out here that long? Peter doesn’t even remember. It’s Sunday, he called in sick on Friday and hasn’t been in touch with… well, anyone since then) up until twenty minutes ago. The last one is from Tony.

 

_If you’re still alive or haven’t been kidnapped by the mafia, call us._

 

Peter tries to huff out a smirk but it hurts his throat to do so. Less, though, than before water. God, water is so good. He finishes the third cup and fills up a forth. Then he slides onto Tony’s contact and presses call.

 

It’s barely two rings in when Tony answers.

 

“Peter?” Ouch. Loud voice.

 

“Y-yeah, um, sorry I missed all your messages, I-”

  
“Jesus, are you ok? I swear to god, Steve was like, two seconds from just going over to your apartment when you called.” Tony interrupts, and he sounds so concerned, it makes Peter feel a pang of guilt. Which, yikes. Pangs of guilt do not sit well with already unstable stomachs.

 

“Sorry, Tony, I’m- I’m fine. I’m alright, just sick. I guess I wasn’t checking my phone, I didn’t mean to miss your calls and stuff. Sorry,” Even Peter can tell his voice sounds weak and scratchy.

 

“It ok, Pete, don’t apologize. We’re glad you’re not, like, dead or something. Sorry you’re sick though, baby. You need anything?” Tony asks. Peter sighs and smiles.

 

“No thanks, I’m go-” he’s interrupted by a freaking coughing fit. _Ironic_ , Peter thinks, chugging his fourth glass of water to stop himself from hacking up a lung. When his diaphragm settles and his throat calms, he gives a weak laugh into the phone.

 

“You sure you’re alright?” Tony asks, sounding like he already won’t believe Peter when the boy inevitably answers yes.

 

“I’m fine, Tony. A cold won’t kill me.” Peter says. He appreciates the concern, relishes in the care if he’s being honest, but he can take care of himself. He’s not helpless.

 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help make it easier. Being sick is shitty kiddo, it’s not a problem for us to-”

 

“Tony. I’m alright, I promise. It’s not that bad, I’ll be fine in a couple days. I’m feeling better already,” Peter lies. And maybe that was overkill that did not pay off, because Tony’s silent for a minute and then his voice comes out cautious.

 

“Maybe we should stop by, come check on you.” He says. Peter narrows his eyes, even though the man can’t see him. Bad idea. First of all, Peter does _not_  want either of the husbands to see him like this. All slow and weak and ass getting handed to him by his cold. Secondly, he really doesn’t want them to get sick from being around him.

 

“Do not come over,” he says, trying to be stern.

 

“Ok, we’re gonna come over.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes.

 

“See you in a bit, Pete,” Tony says, and hangs up before Peter can object again. He groans, setting his phone on the counter. His brain hurts. Everything is cloudy and achy and the water helped a lot but he won’t be feeling up to, well, being alive, any time soon.

 

Peter sighs and fills up a fifth cup, but only takes a couple sips. He thinks about showering but he knows it’ll take him a while in this condition, and he doesn’t want to be in the bathroom when the couple get here (preferably so he can send them away immediately), so he just sits at his kitchen table, wishing he had more medicine.

 

He ran out yesterday, but knows he can’t make it to the store, and is passionately against asking any of his friends or May or god forbid either of the husbands for help. So he sits and wallows in his cold and tries to will his headache away.

 

Barely ten minutes later he has to go to the bathroom (right, right, chugged four cups of water in like, five minutes) and makes another five trips to the toilet in the twenty minutes that follow. Then half an hour after the phone call, when Peter’s starting to think maybe he would’ve had time to shower after all, there’s a knock on the door. Peter stumbles to the entree way and leans against the wall, seeing Tony and Steve standing outside the peep hole. Steve’s closer, he must have knocked, and Tony’s carrying a brown paper bag.

 

Peter grumbles to himself and reluctantly opens the door. He feels like an asshole for wanting to send them away, but he really doesn’t want them to see him so sick and gross, and he _really_  doesn’t want them to get sick, too.

 

He opens the door and Steve hits him immediately with that stupid, perfect, blinding smile.

 

“Hey Petey-” he begins but Peter cuts him off as he starts to step inside, bracing his hands against the man’s ridiculously firm chest and pushing as hard as he can. Steve doesn’t budge, doesn’t even shift a little, and Peter’s putting so much effort into this that it’s kind of infuriating.

 

“Nope, nope nope nope, you gotta go, you can’t be here,” He says, putting all of his weight against Steve, his sock clad feet slipping on the wood flooring, making him push at what’s probably a comical angle. Especially because Steve’s completely unaffected by Peter’s attempts.

 

“Why not, baby? Something wrong?” Steve asks, taking Peter’s wrists and pushing back, shifting his hands to hold Peter’s as he moves himself (and, consequently, his husband) into the apartment.

 

“Steeeve,” Peter whines, trying to worm his hands free. It’s not working. “You guys gotta _go_ ,” he tries again.

 

“Why’s that, sweetheart?” Tony asks, hand on the door (it’s still open. There’s still hope).

 

Peter tries to give them a look that he wants to be serious but is probably more of a pout.

 

“I’ll get you sick!” He says, wanting his voice to be urgent. He’s pretty sure it comes off more as childishly concerned, though, having the same effect of earnestness as a naive little kid.

 

Steve and Tony exchange a look, something like understanding and amusement, and turn back to Peter with expressions of entertained sympathy.

 

“You won’t get us sick, Pete. Promise,” Tony says, closing the door behind him. Peter wonders if he’s making reassuring excuses or if, maybe, actually, this is because he forgot to get the flu vaccine this year, and the husbands probably got it months ago. Shit. Does he have the flu? He might have the flu. Damnit.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s still pouting, worried eyebrows and his lower lip a little puffed out, until Steve coos at him, kissing his forehead.

  
  
“It’s fine, Pete. We won’t get sick. Let us take care of you, yeah?” He prompts, grinning. Shit. Steve knows Peter's kind of weak to that statement, those specific words. He’s still opposed to the idea, but he abandons his adamant refusal when he sees Tony pull out four cans of chicken noodle soup.

 

His stomach growls. That’s right, Peter thinks. Eating. That’s a thing people should do on a regular basis.

 

Steve puts his hand on Peter’s forehead and frowns. “Baby, you’re burning up. Have you taken anything recently?” He asks. Peter bites his lip.

 

“Um, well, I kind of ran out of cold medicine yesterday, so… no, not, not recently,” he’s not looking at Steve. Great, now they’re gonna think he’s incapable and irresponsible. Because immaturity is _so_ attractive, he thinks, his memory not sparing him from recalling the night this all started, when he showed up to his apartment drunk and having lost his key. Perfect. Like they need any more reason to baby him.

 

_You love it_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. He wills his thoughts to shut up.

 

Steve gives him a fond smile (not derision?) anyways, brushing some of his probably gross hair away from his face. “It’s ok, sweetheart. We brought some, just in case,” he looks to Tony, who produces three different bottles of meds from the bag with a grin that’s something like proud.

 

“If you couldn’t go get more yourself, you could’ve called. I’m sure May or your friends would’ve gotten some for you, and we’d have been happy to help,” the man says, emptying the contents of the bag completely. Two more cans of vegetable soups, and a package of saltine crackers. Two bottles of vitamin water. A pack of vitamin c supplements, a bag of cough drops, and a dvd of the boy’s favorite documentary on Antarctica (he just really likes penguins and polar bears, ok?). Peter kind of wants to cry.

 

He looks away from Steve and shrugs. “I know, but I can take care of myself. I just didn’t wanna bother anybody, that’s all.” He says, sniffles a little, and walks on shaky legs to his cup of water. God, _God_ , water has never tasted better in Peter’s _life_  than it does today.

 

A hand on the small of his back and a little sigh tells him Tony is behind him. “We know you can, honey. But you’re never a bother, Pete. Not to your aunt, or your friends, and certainly not to us, so you can get that idea outta your head right now,” the man smirks, pecking Peter’s temple. It makes him smile a little and he turns to face the couple.

 

“Thanks, guys.” He says quietly, looking at the floor and fidgeting with his sleeves. They’re so nice to him, all the time; he doesn’t know what to do about it. He can see them both grinning at him in his peripheral vision.

 

“How about this,” Steve begins, stepping closer to them. “We take a shower, get you some clothes that aren’t all germy, get you some soup and meds, and you can take a nap. ‘Cause Pete, you honestly look like you’re about to pass out standing there,” he chuckles. It’s true. Peter’s swaying slightly, his eyes feel heavy. He’s wanted to be asleep since he woke up an hour or so ago, but his need for water and the throbbing headache weren’t letting him.

 

All Peter can do is nod and give them an appreciative smile, because yeah, that sounds _amazing_  if he’s honest. Tony nods back at him and wraps an arm over his shoulders, then scoops him up slowly, gently. The action that normally takes the boy by surprise doesn’t aggravate his headache and Peter’s grateful. His legs are jelly, anyways. So he just sighs and strings his arms around Tony’s neck and lets the man pick him up.

 

Tony carries him bridal style to the bathroom, where Steve sets the water temperature for the shower. The inventor strips him slowly, pulling off his hoodie and t-shirt gently. Peter didn’t realize how sensitive his skin is until Tony’s pulling fabric off of him and it almost hurts.

 

"Easy, honey, that's it," the older man tugs his joggers and boxers down carefully and helps Peter step out of them. Steve strips first, then takes ahold of Peter’s arms and guides him into the shower while Tony undresses.

 

Peter moves under the water slowly. It’s hot, but in a good way. He feels like he’s burning the grime and germs away, like he can feel the hot water running inside him and washing tension out of his achy body.

 

Steve steadies him with an arm around his waist and Tony follows after, grabbing a washcloth and the bottle of Peter’s body wash. It’s a bit of a tight fit, because Peter’s shower is nowhere near as big as Steve and Tony’s, but they make it work. Tony rubs him down gently, cautiously scrubbing every inch of Peter’s body, following each brush and wipe with a smooth caress of his hand. Steve supports the boy, one arm around his middle and a hand holding Peter’s shoulder. His thumbs massage little circles onto Peter’s soft, creamy skin, and the youngest relaxes against him.

 

Tony finishes washing his body and takes his weight from Steve. The artist grabs Peter’s shampoo and starts working the soap into the boy’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and running his fingers through a chestnut brown jungle, straight and wavy and curly strands slowly becoming smoothed and tamed and clean. Peter sighs as Steve’s hands and hot water fight his headache down to dullness, and he leans more into Tony. Tony just tightens his grip slightly and rubs his hand soothingly on Peter’s side and belly.

 

After Steve repeats his action with conditioner and Peter resolves to washing his own face, they stand in the warmth and steam a while longer, until the boy is actually almost falling asleep in the couple’s arms. It’s only then that Tony kills the water.

 

"Must be really tired, huh, sweet thing?" the man coos as he and his husband help the younger out of the shower. The boy can only hum in response. The mirror is fogged up with condensation and the whole bathroom is misty, but Peter doesn’t mind. It feels good with how congested his head had been, and after the water and the shower, his body doesn’t feel so sore.

 

Steve and Tony help him dry off, and it’s one of the rare times Peter doesn’t at least try to object. He lets them slowly ruffle his hair with the towel, gently wiping away all the wet. When they’re done, Steve and Tony redress in their previous clothes (which are, admittedly, probably much, much cleaner than Peter’s were) and raid Peter’s drawers and closet. They find him clean boxers and another pair of sweatpants, carefully helping him into a long sleeved shirt. Peter’s eyes are tired and he gives them a sleepy smile when Steve gathers him into his arms.

 

The man carries him to the living room, whispering sweet endearments in his ear and kissing him, his temple and his damp hair. He tenderly sets Peter on the couch, immediately grabbing a blanket to wrap around him. Tony broke away from them when they left the bathroom, and now he stands in the kitchen, opening one can of soup. Steve fetches one of the bottles of vitamin water and the meds, sitting down next to the small boy again. He breaks the seal on the water before handing it to Peter, which the younger would feel slightly offended about otherwise, but he knows he’d have struggled opening it. His hands, arms, _everything_  are weak and he’s not sure how well his fingers would take squeezing the ridges of the cap.

 

Steve dishes him out two pills from two different bottles and cups Peter’s hand in his own, emptying the capsules into the boy’s palm. Peter takes them one at a time (he hates pills), quickly drinking almost a quarter of the bottle. It tastes like strawberries and sugar, but surprisingly, that doesn’t hurt his head.

 

Steve hands him another little tablet, the vitamin c supplement, and walks the bottles back to the table. Peter sets it dissolve in his mouth, orange and chalky and a little bit fizzy. The microwave hums as the boy watches Steve set up the tv and pop in the dvd. The cloud-washed winter sun outside reflects off the artist’s eyes so brightly, and his jaw looks especially hard set and sharp from this angle. He's like a living, breathing sculpture, like something from a museum. He's beyond handsome, for sure, he and Tony both. They're something different, on a different plane of gorgeous that makes Peter's head spin. Which, not the best thing since he's on thin ice with a headache right now. 

 

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Steve meets his eyes, quirking a knowing eyebrow. Peter blushes a little, but he’s too sleepy and too comfortable with the man to be properly embarrassed, so he just gives him what’s likely a loopy little smile.

 

Steve chuckles and walks over to him, cupping his cheek and cooing at him. “You’re so cute, baby, so precious,” he says, quietly, and kisses Peter’s nose. It makes the boy feel a surge of very good things in his chest and he kisses Steve on the cheek.

 

Peter doesn’t realize the microwave has stopped buzzing until Tony is sitting down beside him, carefully sliding the bowl of soup into his hands. It dawns then on Peter that the man must’ve stopped it before the ding, which no doubt would have hurt the boy’s head, and he grins at Tony.

 

“Thanks,” he whispers, unintentionally. Even his voice is weak.

 

“Eat up, sweetheart,” Tony muses, carding his fingers lightly through the boy’s still-wet hair, kissing his temple. Peter hums in response, taking a steaming spoonful and blowing on it. When he deems it cooled enough, he pours it into his mouth. The hot, salty broth hits his tongue and he feels every inch it travels down his throat, and it’s heaven. God, soup is so good. Soup and water. Soup and water are fucking _gifts_  to this earth.

 

Steve and Tony get situated beside him, the documentary intro rolling. Steve’s arm rests across the back of the couch and Tony’s hand falls in front of it, gently fondling through Peter’s hair. The boy sighs, taking in slow spoonfuls of soup. He feels warm. Physically, the hot shower and the layers and the broth and two men beside him have warmed up that achy chill in him, but he’s. Happy. Warm and happy, because Steve and Tony make him feel warm and happy. All the time, really, but right now?

 

Peter usually hates being taken care of (unless it’s May and he’s incapacitated with illness, because it reminds him of when he was a kid and that’s its own kind of comfort), since it makes him feel so needy and helpless and bothersome. But with the two men next to him, he just feels. Safe. Safe and good and, he doesn’t like using the word because it brings a whole mess of fresh thoughts into his head, but they make him feel _loved_.

 

It’s complicated and wonderful and Peter wants to drown in it for the rest of his life.

 

He finishes his soup as the narrator is getting to the part about hatching baby penguins. Tony takes the bowl from him and sets it on the end table before he can even start to get up, giving him a knowing grin. The boy grins back and leans into the couch, sighing deeply. He cuddles up against Steve’s warm body, moving to rest his head against the man’s shoulder when Tony picks up his legs. He grabs the boy behind the knees, pulling them up and laying his legs over the top of his own, turning Peter to the side. Steve moves smoothly, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist and scooting towards Tony, gently dragging Peter into his lap. He holds the boy close and Peter relishes in the heat radiating off the two men.

 

He snuggles into Steve and crowds his knees against Tony’s front, trying to get as much of their warmth as possible. The two men laugh a little at his antics, but pull him closer. Steve keeps his hold around Peter’s back and body, holding the blanket tightly around him. One of Tony’s arms takes the place of Steve’s on the back of the couch, and Peter can barely see where the man is lightly massaging the base of his husband’s neck. The mechanic’s other hand goes to one of Peter’s knees, cupping it through the blanket and rubbing it soothingly. The soft touches and the warmth get to Peter fast, and he nuzzles his face into Steve’s chest, grabbing slightly at the man’s shirt.

 

“Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ll be here.” Tony says quietly. His voice is doing the low, gravely thing and Peter likes it. A lot. It sends good things through him and he hums appreciatively, smiling tiredly and letting his eyes close.

 

“Thank you,” he mumbles sleepily, his voice barely audible. He wonders if they heard him.

 

“You’re welcome, baby. Now sleep,” Steve says, kissing the top of his head. His body doesn’t hurt so much anymore. The medicine and the couple’s care must be kicking in, because his headache is gone and the achiness feels soothed to easily manageable. Distantly, the documentary narrator is saying something about the penguins’ eggs.

 

Peter noses further into the warmth of Steve’s shirt and shoulder, breathing in deep. He smells good, kind of earthy and a lot like whatever his laundry detergent is. Peter likes it. It makes him feel secure, calm. He breathes it in again and lets that scent, the warmth, Tony’s hand on his knee and descriptions of penguins’ early lives lull him to sleep.

 

He doesn’t know it now, as he drifts off, that Tony takes a picture of him, of them, snuggled up and Peter fast asleep, but he’ll find out later-- because the photo ends up printed out and on the couple’s fridge. They use a magnet Peter got them to keep it up.

 

Peter cringes and blushes when he sees the photo, but on the inside, he’s pleased. He’s not sure what it means or why it makes him so happy, but he smiles when he thinks about it. It makes him feel--

 

There’s that word again.

 

Loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm what the kids call Really Fucking Busy but it's the weekend, so hopefully I can crank out another chapter or two before Monday rolls around. Thanks for reading babes <3


	5. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The couple decide to tease Peter all day. Needless to say, things escalate very quickly once they get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Steve and Tony: the worst fucking teases ever. This gets real filthy real quick, that’s all I have to say. 
> 
> Also, this chapter feels weird. Idk, my writing seems off in this, so I might come back and edit it later. Forewarning.
> 
> In other news, this week is what I like to refer to as “literal fucking hell” week, so I probably won’t be updating (and if I do, let’s be honest, it’s probs gonna be short and low quality. Sorry in advance) but!! After this week I will be way less busy and am gonna dedicate my entire soul to writing the plotty (that turns out is less plotty and more porn-with-angsty) fic that I keep talking about. Because, honestly, that’s really all I wanna do anyways. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, babes, hope you enjoy <3
> 
> notes/warnings: oral and anal at the same time, coming untouched (I know, I know, it’s super unrealistic, but I can’t stop writing it) multiple orgasms, forced orgasm, overstimulation.

Everything sucks.

 

The problem, actually, is that the things Steve and Tony are doing feel really, really good-- but are nowhere near enough.

 

Though, that’s kind of the point, Peter supposes.

 

There’s a convention in Manhattan that Tony wanted Steve and Peter to come with him to. Something Stark Industries would be interested in, one of multiple that occur throughout the year. Steve is more of supportive company, though he still finds some of the projects interesting. Peter, however-- this is right up his alley.

 

Over half of the projects involve bio and chemical engineering. This is literally what he’s in college for, and he’s lying if he says he doesn’t read every panel and description for almost all of the exhibits. He even brings himself to ask a question about one, a collection of small robots made to repair the smaller wires inside large electrical cords, and when he turns around, he sees Tony beaming at him with what he can only describe as _pride_. That makes Peter’s heart swell up in ways he doesn’t quite understand yet.

 

Of course, it’s painfully difficult to focus on all the interesting projects when he’s been hard since the morning.

 

He’d gone over to Steve and Tony’s house a little after 10 am, and been met with hands around his waist and a searing kiss.

 

“Hey baby,” Tony had mumbled, lips against Peter’s skin. “You ready for today?”

 

The man had rolled his hips against Peter’s front and Steve had done similarly from behind, their mouths on his neck, making the boy lose his breath in his throat. And then as soon as it started, it was over, and Steve was caressing his cheek with a fond smile while Tony grabbed his jacket. Peter had never been more confused in his life.

 

It became clear, however, on the drive to Manhattan. A little over forty minutes of _torture_ , that’s what that was.

 

Steve kept rubbing Peter’s thigh and Tony mouthed along his jaw, whispering in his ear. The boy hadn’t known what to do; they were in a cab, for chrissake. It’s not like he could moan and ask for more. He sent them confused, warning glances and was only able to gasp out a short, needy “Tony” or “Steve” without whimpering or otherwise giving away what was going on. All he’d been able to do was take it, the men keeping him hard and wanting the entire drive, not giving too much so that Peter might break, never letting up enough for him to breathe properly.

 

Apparently, that’s the point. Because it didn’t end there.

 

The convention consists of equal parts wandering around, observing exhibits, and sitting at tables in a large event hall, watching speakers present, the tables set with bottles of water and full information pamphlets. Wandering around is the easy part; Peter can keep a safe distance from the two men and distract himself with projects. Sitting at the tables, though, is horrible.

 

Peter ends up seated between the husbands-- of course he does. Each man casually rests a hand on his thighs, squeezing, rubbing their fingers soothingly, massaging. And then one of the couple will let their hand venture higher, cupping Peter’s hard on and fondling him through his jeans. Peter whimpers and blames the sound on a headache; the same headache that he blames his perpetual blush and how ‘distracted’ he is today. Yeah. _Distracted_.

 

The men lean over to whisper in his ear, getting closer and staying longer than necessary. They keep _touching_  him, hands on his shoulders, arms, waist. Looking at him with hungry eyes every time he has to disguise a moan as a cough (“Tony, what are you _doing_?”) and not even trying to hide their expressions (“Whatever do you mean, Peter?”).

 

And so it goes on. All. Fucking. Day.

 

They keep him hard throughout almost the entire convention; the only time he’s able to breathe is when they’re walking around-- and even then, they make sure to give him those _looks_  that they damn well know drive him crazy. Peter has never been more grateful for his layers, the jeans, oversized hoodie and jacket that allow him to conceal his hard on.

 

Steve and Tony tease him relentlessly for the whole freaking day, making sure to keep him hot and bothered but never pushing him too far. He doesn’t get a chance to cool down at all and it drives him insane.

 

When the convention finally ends, Peter thinks he might cry. The close comes after the final presentation, something or another about plans to hire more people for some company, Peter doesn’t even know. Has no idea what the speaker was talking about, because Steve was lightly, _painfully_  lightly, rubbing him through his jeans the whole time, and Peter kept taking panicked sips of his water to try and drown out his whimpers.

 

The stage lights go off and people start standing up, ready to meander towards the exit. Peter sighs in relief when Steve’s hand leaves his lap, swallowing hard, barely even registering Tony guiding him out of his chair by the shoulder. The man wraps an arm around him, tucking Peter against his chest, and smiles against the side of the boy’s head.

 

“It’s almost over, baby, did so good today, only a little while longer, Pete,” he whispers, and Peter doesn’t have to contain the pitiful whimper he lets out, because the hall is loud now.

 

Steve is beside him, then, and the two men move quickly, swiftly. Rarely has Peter seen the professional, less domestic, less _intimate_  side of Tony Stark-Rogers, but he does today. Sees him busy-business talk his way through and out of the crowd, essentially brushing people off in the polite way that only socialites with places to be can.

 

The walk out of the building is a blur. All Peter can think about is how much his cock _hurts_. He’s been various degrees of hard for hours, literally all day, and he’s about ready to cry from it. He’s aching, throbbing in his jeans, and he’s honestly not sure if he can last the cab ride back home.

 

Whether he wants to break down in tears or jump the two men the moment they’re inside the car, he’s not sure.

 

There’s a taxi waiting for them when they get out, as Tony had made arrangements for the ride home before they’d left. The two men shuffle Peter through the door quickly, and it’s only after he sits down, between Steve and Tony, does he realize that he’s shaking, slightly.

 

“Just a bit more, sweetheart. Think you can manage?” Steve asks, and his voice is half teasing, half genuine concern. Screw Steve and his wholesome affection. Peter fucking adores him. _Them_. And right now, he’s not even thinking about how pissed he is at being tormented all day. He just _wants_  them.

 

So he nods and feels his throat close off a whimper before it can escape, and focuses on the manual in the seat pocket. What does it say? Something about seat belts, Peter can’t tell. He’s not reading it; just training all of his attention on the letters.

 

“There’s a good boy, doing so well, it’s almost over, sweet pea,” Tony whispers in his ear, and Peter can feel the man’s hand carding through his hair. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to breathe better, because suddenly he feels hot and like one wrong move could have him coming in his pants. Which. Probably the worst possible outcome, if Peter’s honest.

 

The drive is slow and drags on and the boy’s not sure if Steve and Tony’s hands on his thighs again is a relief or stress. They aren’t groping him, at least, but part of him wishes they were. Shit, why do they have to be in a cab right now?

 

The couple keep up conversation, mercifully excluding him, for the most part. Peter can hear the strain in their voices, but he barely registers it. Steve has to say his name three times before he realizes they asked him what he thought the most interesting project was, and even then he struggles to recall the exhibit about the wire repair robots. Tony smiles fondly at him at that. Says he saw Peter asking a question about that one, that he was impressed. Knows that kind of thing makes Peter nervous.

 

And for one beautiful, blissful second, Peter forgets about how hard he is. Because Tony, and Steve (if the adoring way he looks at Peter during this conversation has any input) are _proud_  of him. It makes him feel warm in a different way and he smiles at them so appreciatively, positively glowing with the approval.

 

The wonderful moment doesn’t last, though, because the taxi hits a speed bump and it makes Tony’s hand rub against his crotch and for, god, Peter doesn’t even know what time that day, he has to disguise a moan as a cough.

 

His ears burn and his legs tense, squeezing tighter together. Tony looks at him apologetically but Peter doesn’t see it, his eyes snapped shut with the focus it’s taking him not to fall apart.

 

It takes way too long for them to get back to the husbands’ house, and by the time they do, Peter thinks he might die. It’s evening now and he’s down to only half hard, pretty good at controlling his breathing, but it still hurts. His stomach clenches and he feels like if he moves one single muscle he’ll explode.

 

Tony pays the driver as Steve ushers the boy out, and they’re walking up to the front door at a record pace. Peter’s hopeful for release, of course he is, but he’s honestly half expecting the teasing to continue.

 

The minute he’s through the door, though, Steve’s kissing him.

 

“Fuck, Peter,” the man all but growls, holding the boy’s head in one hand, the other working off his jacket. Tony’s behind him in a flash, nearly ripping the coat away, his hands moving to hold tightly around Peter’s waist. The boy whimpers and clings to Steve’s shirt, pulling him close as they kiss, Tony’s arms trapped between their stomachs.

 

“Do you have any idea,” Tony begins, dropping to suck on Peter’s neck. He moans at the feeling of the older man’s teeth and tongue on his skin. “... how hard it was, to sit there,” the man bites on Peter’s shoulder and the boy gasps into his kiss with Steve. “... sit there, and watch you squirm,” Tony licks the spot he bit, then nips Peter’s earlobe, “all, fucking, day?” Peter groans, one of his hands moving up to tangle in Steve’s hair.

 

“Y-yeah? H-how do you think I felt, you guys,” Peter’s voice sounds wrecked already as he speaks between kisses, “t-teasing me, the whole t-time?” Steve pulls away from the kiss and releases Peter for a moment to shed his own jacket. It hits the bedroom floor and the younger realizes he didn’t even notice they’d been moving.

 

Tony spins him, suddenly, and tosses, literally _tosses_  Peter onto the bed. The boy yelps as he bounces, only once, before Steve is on top of him. The man cages him in, hands planted beside Peter’s head as he kisses him deep. His tongue is in the smaller’s mouth, almost frantic.

 

“Sorry baby,” Steve begins, moving to nip and kiss down the side of Peter’s face. “You’re just so fucking cute,” he drags his teeth across the taut skin of the boy’s jawline, “we couldn’t help it.” He bites down on Peter’s neck, just under his ear, and Peter groans. Tony lunges onto the bed a moment later, joining Steve. In one fluid motion he’s pulling up and discarding Peter’s shirt, dropping to mouth at his collarbones and chest.

 

“Please, p-please,” Peter whines, withering under them. He needs it so bad, needs _them_  so desperately, he can feel the sting as tears bud in his eyes.

 

“Shh, sweetheart, we’ve got you,” Tony coos, but his voice is husky. He licks one of Peter’s hard nipples, swirling his tongue around the pink nub. Peter moans breathily, one of his hands gripping Tony’s bare shoulder (when did he take his shirt off? Peter’s not sure), the other grasping at Steve’s hair (never tight, though).

 

Steve lifts himself up for a moment, only to tear off his shirt and toss it to some forgotten corner of the room. He’s back on Peter in a second, trailing wet kisses down his neck. Tony groans against the boy’s smooth skin as his hands find Peter’s jeans. He barely undoes the button before he’s tugging them down and away. Peter lifts his hips to help, and moments later Steve is pushing down his boxers.

 

His erection springs free of the clothing and Peter lets out a long moan at the sensation. His cock is flushed and so painfully hard, beads of precome leaking from the tip. Holy shit, he needs to come, like, five hours ago. Pretty pink with need and hard against his stomach, his cock _aches_ , and his breathing comes ragged and quick. He bites his lip and hopes the couple are as affected as he is-- feeling embarrassingly desperate.

 

“You’re perfect, sweetheart, perfect,” Steve says, voice gravelly, as if he can hear Peter’s thoughts. He’s working his own belt off and Peter can feel Tony kissing his tummy and thighs, agonizingly avoiding his cock, but no doubt the man is removing his own pants as well. When Steve’s slacks and boxers are thrown carelessly away, the hand not holding him up finds Peter’s mouth. He dips two fingers inside, past the boy’s lips. Peter is quick to draw the digits in, licking and sucking the way he knows Steve likes. The man groans above him, dropping his mouth back to the younger boy’s neck and working another hickey onto soft skin.

 

Tony’s presence disappears for a moment, but Peter doesn’t even have time to whine in protest before he’s back again. The snap of a cap tells Peter the man retrieved lube, but he doesn’t see, his eyes closed in bliss. His hips shift instinctively and his back curves slightly, his body making his want clear.

 

“We’re gonna try something new Petey, ok?” Tony’s voice says from beside him, and then Steve’s fingers are leaving his mouth and he’s being pulled up by his forearms. Peter opens his eyes and sees Steve holding him up on one side, Tony next him on the other, looking at him with hungry eyes. Peter doesn’t realize he hasn’t responded until Tony’s kissing him gently, a stark contrast to how _animalistic_  they were a moment ago, threading his fingers through the base of Peter’s hair.

 

“Trust us, ok sweetheart?” Tony says against his lips, and _hell_  if that doesn’t override every other feeling in Peter’s body, drowning him in wonderful things he can’t describe. He nods, breathing with his lips parted, looking up at Tony and hoping he can convey that yes, yes, he trusts them. Tony smiles at him, that damned beautiful smile, and nods back. Peter can feel Steve smiling, too, against his skin, where the man kisses his shoulder.

 

“Alright, hands and knees for us, baby,” Steve says, and Peter hurries to comply. At least, he thinks he’s hurrying. Time stopped making sense the minute they walked through the door.

 

He braces himself, splaying his hands on already disheveled sheets, arching his back subconsciously. Steve moves behind him and Tony in front, and Peter thinks he knows what’s happening but he’s not entirely sure. The idea coming to mind is, admittedly, really fucking hot, but also kind of terrifies him. He swallows heavy when he feels Steve kissing his back, hands kneading his ass, and sees Tony’s (hell, is it always this big?) cock in front of him. Red and leaking and the vein on the underside bulging out, bouncing heavily as he shifts to face Peter.

 

“Easy, baby. We’ll take it nice and slow, alright?” Steve says against his skin. Peter breathes out a shaky breath and looks up at Tony. The man looks back at him with such _fondness_ , it seems out of place when his cock is inches from Peter’s mouth. He runs a hand through Peter’s messy hair and leans down to him, kissing his forehead.

 

“We’ll be careful. You know we’d never hurt you, angel,” Tony whispers. Peter closes his eyes and nods, the feeling of Tony’s fingers in his hair and Steve’s hand now on his side grounding him. He does know that. He nods again, to show it, and feels Tony smiling. “Good boy. Now relax, ok?”

 

Suddenly there’s a cold, wet finger against his entrance and he jumps.

 

“Shh, shh, easy, easy honey,” Steve’s voice comes from behind him. It’s low and deep, the way it gets when he’s trying really hard to control himself, and it sends a spike of pride through Peter. He’s doing that.

 

He forces himself to relax, closing his eyes and focusing on Tony’s hand in his hair, Steve’s kisses on his back and cheeks. The finger circles his tight ring of muscle for a while, spreading lube and warming up. Then it’s pushing against his hole and Peter bites his lip, focusing on letting Steve in. The finger only slides in up to the first knuckle, waiting, letting Peter breathe. Then it moves deeper, slowly, so slowly, until it’s fully seated inside him.

 

Peter shifts experimentally, testing himself. The stretch burns, but Steve’s taking it so slow that it’s not too bad. The lube heats up fast inside him and he can feel the strange sensation of liquid just as hot as his own insides being spread around as Steve twists his finger, curling slightly, pulling out a bit and pushing in, coating Peter’s walls with slick. Another wet finger, this one cold, prods at his entrance for a moment before cautiously joining the first.

 

Tony scratches lightly at his scalp and runs his hands through Peter’s unruly chestnut hair, and Steve whispers encouragement against his skin, giving him a pretty good distraction. Eventually, Steve works up to having both digits all the way inside, scissoring him, massaging the lube all around. He pushes them in deep and twists his wrist, curling the pads of his fingers into that spot that forces a high pitched moan out of Peter, making him wobble in his position.

 

“There we go, that’s it,” Tony whispers, one hand caressing the side of Peter’s face. It’s comforting and pleasant but Steve rubs against his prostate again and Peter thinks he might start crying. His cock is weeping and he trembles as he holds himself up, whimpering with need. He has to come so bad, he’s had to for _hours_ , and he can feel his entire body burning with how intensely he wants it.

 

Steve adds a third finger and twists them inside, pumping slowly, raking his teeth along the boy’s ass. When Peter can’t stop himself from pushing back slightly against Steve’s fingers, the man chuckles and kisses the small of his back again, removing the digits entirely. Peter sighs as a feeling of emptiness overtakes him, but it doesn’t last long. He can hear Steve slicking up his cock and is almost tempted to look back, see how flushed and hard it must be, but Tony’s hands on his head keep him facing forward.

 

“Ready, honey?” Steve asks. Peter can feel the blunt head of the man’s cock against his entrance and he breathes a shaky breath, his mouth watering.

 

“Y-yeah,” he stutters out. He wonders if he’ll ever be articulate in bed, or if he’ll always be a mumbling, mildly incoherent mess. Maybe it’s just Steve and Tony that make him like that.

 

Without waiting a moment longer, Steve pushes in. He forces the tip of his cock past Peter’s tight rim with a groan that has Peter’s head falling forward, his mouth open, panting. God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to sex at all, having Steve and Tony’s (massive) cocks inside him. Steve moves slowly, giving him breaks to adjust as he pushes in, and Peter does his best to relax and accept the intrusion, but he _still_  feels like he’s being split. It burns so good and his breathing turns into ragged moans and whimpers. He appreciates the soothing encouragement Tony and Steve whisper, but he honestly doesn’t know what they’re saying, his mind reduced to nothing but _feeling_  as Steve slowly, slowly bottoms out.

 

When he’s seated fully in to the hilt, Steve pauses, panting. His hands grip Peter’s hips so tight the boy knows he must be using it as grounding, knows there will be bruises for sure, and the small boy swallows hard.

 

“Ok, baby, open your mouth for me. Think you can do that?” Tony’s voice comes from above him, rumbling and raspy. Peter doesn’t think he can speak, so he gives what he hopes is a short nod and lifts his head, opening his mouth. He drops his jaw down and sticks his tongue out slightly, his mouth inches away from Tony’s cock, and looks up. The man looks down at him, meets his eyes, and _groans_  like it’s killing him. He takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times, looking at Peter with a nearly distressed expression.

 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking perfect,” he grunts out, and then he’s leading his cock to Peter’s mouth.

 

The heavy tip and bitter taste of precome hit the boy’s tongue, but he doesn’t shy away. He’s done this enough times now to know what to do. He moves forward as Tony does, until the man’s cock is half way inside his mouth, and closes his lips tightly around it. He licks at the underside and around the thick length, moaning as he feels Tony’s precome pooling with his own saliva in his mouth. Then he pulls back slightly, only to take the man further down, and the effect has him pushing against Steve’s cock.

 

Steve groans at the same time Tony does, dragging his cock out and thrusting back in. It’s not rough, or fast, but it’s _so fucking deep_ , Steve’s length impossibly far inside Peter. Tony starts moving with Steve, his hands in Peter’s hair. They set up a rhythm easily, the roll of Steve’s hips pushing Peter forward, making him take more of Tony in his mouth. They fuck him together and Peter moans, wrecked and high and broken sounding, at how incredibly full he feels.

 

The pace increases slightly, but Peter doesn’t mind. Steve’s cock moves so deep inside him, rubbing his walls and grazing his prostate in the most tortuously amazing way. Tony feels hot and heavy inside his mouth, one of Steve’s more forceful thrusts sending Peter so far down Tony’s cock, hitting his sweet spot perfectly and making him moan around the man’s length-- all of which amounts to Tony’s precome spilling directly down Peter’s throat. It’s bitter and hot and wet, dripping out from his lips no matter how tight he purses them, dribbling from the corners of his mouth, down his chin and Tony’s cock.

 

Steve’s thrusts are damn near methodical, grinding into Peter just right, making him clench down around him. He feels hot all over, his body burning, his cock on _fire_. The two men move faster, but not in a bad way, upping their paces so Peter’s bouncing between them. It’s sending sparks of pleasure through him and he lets whatever remained of his coherent mind go, succumbing to the sensation of being filled completely, nothing in his head but _Steve_  and _Tony_.

 

“Doing so good, baby, taking it so well, so good for us,” Tony grunts, snapping his hips forward. It makes Peter gag and the man’s heavy balls hit his chin. Then Steve pulls almost all the way out and rolls back in with an angle and pressure that makes his entire cock drag gloriously against Peter’s prostate, and the boy keens with Tony in his mouth, knowing that the tears threatening to fall from his eyes have spilled.

 

Tony groans, loud and low, and his voice rumbles when he says, “Babe, do that again.”

 

Steve obliges, repeating the action, and Peter almost screams around the cock in his mouth. He feels himself shaking more intensely, and he doesn’t try to stop his reactions anymore, too far gone to care. He cries shamelessly, his body weak and pliant to the men around him. He’s not sure how he’s still holding himself up, but it doesn’t matter. Tony groans and thrusts into him, hands holding his hair, in time with the snap and drag of Steve. The other man is grinding into Peter’s sweet spot, now, and Peter can feel his cock dripping precome onto the sheets below him.

 

One forceful thrust later and his nose is buried into the curls at the base of Tony’s cock, Steve enveloped completely inside him. He feels Tony and Steve both leaning over him, pressing their cocks impossibly deeper, and hears them kissing. It’s lewd and fills Peter with the dirtiest bliss imaginable. He can hear their tongues and lips against each other, hear them moaning. He feels like he’s bursting with how stuffed he is and his tummy tightens, the pressure that’s been pooling there all day growing stronger, heavier. He knows he’s getting close and he tries to reach down to stroke himself, but suddenly Steve’s hand is around his wrist, stopping him.

 

“No no, baby.” Tony tuts, and he somehow manages to sound fucked up and composed enough to tease at the same time. Something only Tony is capable of, Peter’s sure. The boy whines, squirming between them. He needs to come so bad, he feels like he’s on fire with it.

 

“You can come just from this, you know you can, angel,” Tony continues, and Peter groans, which then makes his throat convulse and he gags, because he still has the man’s cock buried inside him.

 

“You aren’t coming unless it’s like this, sweetheart. And you will, because you’re so perfect like that,” Steve says, his tone authoritative and demanding and, fuck, that alone about makes Peter climax. “Our good boy,” the man adds.

 

Peter moans again as Tony pulls out a little, because the boy was starting to choke. They’re right; he can come untouched, especially on Steve’s cock. But, _fuck_ , he needs to come so bad, he doesn’t know if he can last even a minute more without becoming hysterical. The words ‘good boy’ ring in his ears, though, and when Steve releases his hand, he brings it back to the other, using it to brace himself.

 

“That’s it, honey, you can do it. You’re doing so good,” Steve’s voice is right behind him, now, and he feels the man kissing his shoulder. He’s not even thrusting anymore, just rolling his hips inside Peter, grinding against his prostate. It’s driving the boy crazy and he hardly notices the way he can feel and hear Steve leaning further over him, kissing up Tony’s stomach and chest.

 

Tony groans and Peter knows they’re kissing again, can feel Tony push himself further into the boy’s mouth, down his throat. Tony presses so far inside him and then Steve snaps his hips against Peter’s, the sounds of skin slapping and kissing and moans filling the room. Peter whimpers and tightens his grip on the sheets below him, his knuckles turning white. He can taste the salt of his tears on his tongue, having spilled onto Tony’s cock and ended up mixed with saliva and bitter precome in the boy’s mouth.

 

And then Tony is completely sheathed in his mouth and Steve nails his prostate with the deepest, most forceful thrust of the night, and Peter feels like he’s drowning in the most intoxicating way, and everything hits him like a powerful wave. His tummy clenches and he feels the pressure inside him explode. He sees white behind his closed eyelids and keens as he comes, his neglected, tormented cock finally getting the climax he’s been desperate for all day. White release stains the bed, spurting out in hot ropes. There’s ringing in Peter’s ears and his mind abandons him completely in favor of the sensation of his orgasm, pleasure bursting powerfully through him with sweet, sweet relief.

 

His arms feel weak and he tries, somewhere, subconsciously, to keep himself up, but Tony’s gripping his upper arms and helping hold him up, just as Steve is doing with his hips. He’s pretty sure his mouth would feel dry if it wasn’t still filled up with Tony’s cock.

 

“That’s it, angel, there you go,” Steve coos, not quite entirely stilled.

 

“Sweet boy, just a little more,” Tony murmurs, and then he and Steve pick up the pace again. They thrust into him with sloppy rhythms and almost wild abandon, both too close to hold back. Peter feels sensitive and over stimulated, Steve still hitting his prostate (not as much, though, he’s avoiding it), his jaw and chin sore from having Tony in his mouth, but he lets them go, not able to care. He lets them use his body a little longer, until Tony’s warning him that he’s about to come. Peter pulls himself together enough to prepare a little, and when the man’s hot come empties into his mouth, he swallows as much as he can.

 

Some still escapes, flowing out from the corners of his mouth, along with his own saliva, but he manages to swallow most of Tony’s release. A few thrusts later and Steve’s coming as well, a long groan leaving him as he covers Peter with his body, biting down on the boy’s shoulder. Peter feels the heat inside him, feels Steve’s come spilling out of him and streaming deep inside. He moans at the feeling, or thinks he does, trying not to let his body go lax.

 

He doesn’t have to try for much longer, though, because Tony carefully pulls out of him and Steve slowly removes his own cock, and then there are hands on his arms and shoulders and middle, guiding him down, laying him on his back.

 

“...perfect, baby, you did perfect, precious boy,” a breathy voice is saying, and Peter thinks its Steve’s. Sounds like Steve. He’s not sure, though. All he can focus on is breathing. Deep breaths in and out, his body still tingling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, exhausted by how thoroughly Steve and Tony used him.

 

One arm is over his eyes, the other splayed carelessly across the bed, Peter breathes with his lips parted. He feels weight beside him, and hands lifting and spreading his thighs, another indent in the bed between his legs.

 

He’s pretty sure it’s Steve next to him, running a hand through his hair, kissing his cheeks. Peter suddenly realizes that he thinks he’s still crying. It’s hard to tell, with his eyes in his elbow, but he can feel Steve licking gently where he guesses the trails are left. Then the man is licking and kissing his chin, his tongue lapping at Peter’s skin and then his lips, dipping into his mouth. It dawns on Peter, as they kiss lazily, that Steve just cleaned what must have been Tony’s come off his face.

 

Steve breaks the kiss often and moves slowly, allowing Peter to work on regaining his breath. His fingers fondle and stroke Peter’s sex-messy hair, and the boy lets his body go completely pliant.

 

“Precious boy, did so good for us,” Steve whispers, lips pressed against Peter’s temple. The small boy sighs in content, tired enough to fall asleep right then and there.

 

Peter didn’t know his body had any energy left, but apparently it does, because he jolts in shock when he feels a soft, wet tongue on his sensitive cock. He struggles onto his elbows, squirming, looking down at Tony with confusion and what probably classifies as panic. Steve keeps a hand on his chest, not letting him sit up too far, hushing him.

 

“Shh, easy, doll, easy,” he coos, and Peter looks from him to Tony in hesitant uncertainty, trying to speak his questions but unable to make his voice work. Steve gives him a reassuring smile and Tony does the same, rubbing his hands soothingly on Peter’s thighs and tummy, kissing right below his navel. His cock is soft, spent, but twitches with Tony’s actions. The man looks back up at Peter and wets his lips, and his comforting smile gives way to a devious little grin.

 

“We were so mean to you, baby, teasing you, made you wait all day. We think you deserve more than one, right?” He offers. Peter groans and lets himself fall back against the bed.

 

These two. They’ll be the fucking death of him.

 

The couple chuckle at him, and Steve brushes his hair off his forehead, kissing his nose. As he does, Tony places kisses all over his belly, his sharp hip bones, his thighs. He moves one finger to where Peter’s hole is leaking lube and Steve’s come, gathering some of the slick on the digit before pressing slowly in.

 

Peter flinches and wriggles, feeling far too sensitive. Tony just hushes him and keeps kissing his skin, carefully working his finger in all the way. A second one joins it quickly, Peter still plenty stretched and wet from the intense fucking a moment ago. Tony still takes his time letting the boy adjust, though, moving cautiously, not wanting to overstimulate Peter _too_  much. Not yet, at least.

 

And then the man’s tongue is on his cock again, kitten licking the tip, and Peter whimpers, jerking away. It hurts, feeling too much. Tony doesn’t stop, though. He moves slow and light and gentle, but he keeps licking at Peter’s cock, dragging his tongue up and down Peter’s length, dipping his tongue into the boy’s slit. His fingers don’t move yet, just sit in the still-tight heat of Peter’s hole, but their presence alone makes his squirming increase the sensation of overstimulation.

 

Peter whimpers and whines pitifully, Steve’s soothing hand rubbing his chest and encouraging words in his ear providing little help.

 

“T-Tony, I, i-it-” he stutters, finally finding his voice. He wants it to stop. He doesn’t, because it feels incredible, but it’s too much and it hurts. Tony stops licking him to look up at him and offer a comforting little smile.

 

“I know, baby, I know, but it’ll feel real good in a minute, sweetheart. I promise. Trust me, ok? I’m gonna make you feel good, angel,” he promises, kissing Peter’s tummy again. Peter swallows heavy and nods.

 

They haven’t really done a whole lot with overstimulation like this. Usually it’s just when Peter comes first and they keep going until they finish too, which the boy doesn’t mind at all. Point being, they’ve never really purposefully overstimulated Peter like this, and it’s new and right now it’s good, though not enough to overpower the _hurt_ , but he does trust them. Trusts Tony that it will feel good soon.

 

So he lays his head back and bites his lip, and lets his mind leave him again. Lets the tears flow and the moans and whimpers escape, quivers on the bed as Steve peppers his face with kisses and Tony starts to work him.

 

The man starts by taking just Peter’s tip in his mouth, keeping his tongue away, doing nothing more than holding the head in wet heat. Then he takes the boy down a little further and starts to move his fingers, bending and pushing them at an angle where he knows he’ll find Peter’s prostate. It makes the younger boy’s body attempt to convulse and he yelps, but Steve holds him down, a hand on his chest. He whimpers and withers on the sheets, feeling the most wonderful, painful sensations sparking through him. It feels like electricity, little shocks of pain laced with pleasure, wracking through him from where Tony is now massaging his prostate and taking him down all the way, introducing his tongue.

 

Peter knows he’s crying hard now, choking on his breath, hiccuping and whimpering, but he can’t stop and he can’t seem to care. He feels so overwhelmed, his body shuddering and jumping from tense to boneless and back again. He wants Tony to stop but he wants it to feel good even more, so he just moans, broken little sounds, and lets Steve keep him down.

 

It takes so much longer than Peter wants it to, but eventually, the pain bleeds away, and there’s nothing but pleasure. Tony’s mouth is like heaven, soft and hot and wet, his tongue working Peter’s cock in every right way. He _pets_  Peter’s sweet spot, sending that perfect, perfect fire racing through him, bubbling in his tummy. Steve’s fingers find his nipples, hard and swollen, and trace around them, nudging and pinching lightly. He kisses Peter’s neck, nibbling on milky skin, adding hickeys to the collection.

 

Peter’s moans morph from broken and pained to overcome with pleasure, sighing and making breathy attempts at pleads, but never getting anything out. He’s still crying, but less now, the tears caused from both aftershocks and current enjoyment.

 

Tony starts moving faster, adding more pressure, and Peter can feel himself getting close, fast. He moans in a feminine octave and his hips stutter, hands grasping at the sheets. Steve smiles against his skin and pinches one pink nub harder, making Peter whimper. Heat gathers in his belly and his breathing gets faster yet.

 

“That’s it, honey, come for us,” Steve husks in his ear. And then Tony hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, his fingers pressing firm against the boy’s prostate, and Steve pinches his nipple again, biting down on his neck, and Peter’s done for. The pressure in his groin explodes and he comes with a cry, pulling on the sheets and squeezing his legs together, clenching down around Tony’s fingers. Tony pulls off just as he does, replacing his mouth with a slick (how did that happen? _When_  did that happen?) hand and stroking Peter through his orgasm, letting him come all over his stomach, chest, and Tony’s hand. Creamy white come covers his skin and his body falls completely pliant, making even breathing a task. He feels completely drained and weak and then he starts to cry _hard_  because Tony doesn’t stop.

 

The man removes his hand only for a moment, before taking Peter all the way into his mouth again, his fingers resuming their ministrations. Sobs wreck their way out of Peter, and he’s too weak and overwhelmed, blinded by the sensations, to do anything but cry and tremble violently.

 

“Nngg, ahh, T-Tony-y-” he chokes out, but his hushed by Steve, kissing him quiet.

 

“Shh, you can do it, baby, you can do one more, we’ve got you, sweetheart, we’ve got you,” Steve hushes, lips covering Peter’s face and neck with sweet kisses. Peter can’t think, his entire body feels like it’s on fire. He’s completely spent, but apparently his cock doesn’t know that, because thanks to Tony, it’s slowly growing hard again in the man’s mouth.

 

Peter knows his whole body is flushed now, his cheeks undoubtedly cherry pink and streaked with tears. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse, because it just narrows down his focus onto how painfully overstimulated he is even more. His cock burns, and so does his ass, and every inch of his body is quaking fiercely. Every muscle is rigid and tense but weak beyond compare and he has to force himself to breathe through the sobs. He wants to beg Tony to stop, but underlying in the pain is something so sweet it burns and he knows now, for certain, that it does feel good eventually, so all he can manage to croak out is a broken, desperate;

 

“P-plea-ease-” Steve shushes him with kisses again, rubbing his chest and tummy soothingly, whispering encouragement and praise in his ear.

 

“You’re doing great, Petey, a little more and you’ll feel real good again, baby, I promise,” he accentuates his words by dropping his head to suck another hickey. Peter groans and whines, and Tony grinds the pads of his fingers particularly forcefully on the boy’s prostate, and it makes Peter very nearly wail.

 

It happens again, just like the first time. It takes way too long and is a terribly gradual change, but eventually, the agonizing hurt fades and the pleasure grows and grows until it’s all Peter can feel, all he can think about. He doesn’t know where or even who he is anymore; everything is boiled down to how good Tony is making him feel, the sweet words Steve whispers, hot hands on his skin, inside him, wet heat surrounding his cock.

 

Fire brews in his gut and this time he can feel it everywhere, can feel his pulse beating through his entire body and can feel the heat and pressure with it, overtaking everything. He knows he’s still sobbing, knows he’s clinging onto Steve’s shoulders as the man’s mouth descends on his chest, but he’s not paying attention anymore. All he can feel is _Tony_  and _Steve_  and the most overwhelming, blinding pleasure he’s ever felt in his life.

 

He gets close too fast, he thinks, for how long he had to squirm and cry and _deal_  with the pain to get here. But he doesn’t really care about that right now, either. Because he can feel the orgasm growing and budding and throbbing in every fiber of his body. His cock burns and he thinks he must have started babbling, because Steve takes a break from kissing and licking his chest and nipples to speak in that quiet, low voice.

 

“Last one, angel. You can come, Peter, come on, let go, honey,” he says it gravely, and takes one of Peter’s nipples in his mouth and _sucks_. Peter doesn’t even realize the man is leaving a hickey on the assaulted nub, though. Because Tony takes him all the way to the base and hollows his cheeks again, closing his throat and swallowing, enveloping Peter in the tightest, most intense heat. He rubs his fingers vigorously against the boy’s abused sweet spot, and Peter’s back arches high and his body goes rigid again.

 

Tony repeats his actions from before, removing his mouth in favor of pumping Peter with his hand. He milks the boy’s orgasm from him, then, as Peter loses it. It feels like real, literal liquid fire goes shooting through all his veins and his stomach convulses, every muscle in his body straining and going stiff. His third orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train, and he thinks he actually must have passed out, because one second everything is burning and he’s drowning, positively drowning in hot, intense pleasure like he’s never felt before, and he’d be downright screaming is his voice allowed anything more powerful than a broken cry, and the next, all he feels are aftershocks.

 

Tony’s hands have left his cock and his hole, now rubbing so, so gently on his thighs and sides. Steve is petting his hair and kissing his face, and there’s fresh, pearly come on his stomach and chest. He’s about two seconds from passing out, then, but he wants to force himself to open his eyes. He wants to see Steve and Tony, wants to look at them. Wants to hold onto them.

 

So he lays there, just breathing, soaking in the soft, quiet praise the two men whisper to him for a few minutes before he makes his eyes open (even if they only go halfway).

 

He sees Tony still between his legs, smiling at him with pure adoration, and Steve is still beside him, looking at him with nothing but fondness.

 

“There you are, sweetheart, that’s it, come back to us,” Steve whispers, kissing his temple. Peter nearly preens. That’s what they tell him after he’s been in the head space. Peter likes it there (here? He thinks he’s still in it. He doesn’t care). It’s safe and content and all he has to think about are the two men with him now. He likes it a lot, but it makes him even happier because he knows Steve and Tony like it, too. They’re proud of him when he lets go for them, and knowing that he made them happy, too, on top of everything else, makes the boy feel even warmer with a different kind of satisfaction.

 

“You did so, so good baby, fuck, Pete, you were perfect, you’re perfect,” Tony breathes, and he moves up, then, to mirror Steve in resting beside Peter. He kisses his cheeks and forehead, then kisses him on the lips. Peter closes his eyes for the kiss, though he’s worried he might not be able to open them again. He just hums against Tony’s mouth, so blissfully content he really might pass out at any second.

 

“Sweet, precious boy,” Steve coos, nosing against his temple. Peter sighs, Tony letting him out of the kiss. His eyes are closed still. That’s ok. He doesn’t need to open them.

 

“You sleepy now, angel?” Tony’s voice says. Peter smiles what’s probably a goofy smile and nods. Or he tries to, at least.

 

“Ok, baby. You can rest now. We’ll handle the rest, yeah? We’ll take care of you,” the man adds, and then he’s kissing Peter’s temple, and Steve is kissing his jaw on the other side, and Peter decides to put all of his energy into his arms so he can reach up and feel the men’s skin under his hands.

 

Peter slips in and out of consciousness, after that. Feels a warm, wet towel on his chest and stomach. Feels it around his hole, and on his very, very, _very_  sensitive cock, but it doesn’t stay long and is so light and gentle that Peter’s body only involuntarily squirms a little. He feels strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him up the bed. He hears lots of sweet, soft words, whispered in his ear, and gentle kisses all over his body. His face and neck and chest, his tummy and his thighs. Both of his knees.

 

He feels when someone (Tony?) lifts him up, just enough, and brings a glass to his lip. He drinks only a few sips, because it’s too cold for his liking, but it’s good once it hits his stomach.

 

He feels blankets around him, and warmth, and then two very, very pleasantly warm bodies close on either side of him. Arms around his waist and over his sides, hands under his ribs and over his belly, fingers running through his hair. He nuzzles into one of the bodies, and the slightly shorter torso tells him it’s Tony’s. From behind him, Steve pulls them flush together, and Peter melts into him. It feels so good, so _r_ _ight_ , being almost squished between them.

 

Close together, warmth growing warmer. They’re still whispering praise to him, hands ever gentle and soothing on his skin, feather light kisses on his forehead and the top of his hair.

 

“Did amazing, baby boy. You’re perfect, precious thing, absolutely perfect.” Steve says quietly, and Peter can hear him breathing deeply.

 

“Go to sleep now, sweetheart. We’ve got you,” Tony’s voice rumbles, so much lower and with something like an echo, and Peter realizes his head is resting on Tony’s chest. He smiles and noses against the man, one of his hands finding Steve’s over his hip and tangling their fingers together. He kisses Tony’s chest and adjusts his head until he can hear the man’s heart beat, and he smiles. He can feel Steve’s pulse against his back and hear Tony’s under his ear, and the rhythms don’t match at all but it’s comforting, somehow. Peter likes it. He likes it a lot, and as he snuggles further into the couple’s embrace, he doesn’t stop himself from wanting to fall asleep like this every night.

 

After sleep takes the boy, and the husbands put a pause in gazing fondly at him to meet each other’s eyes, they share a look that says they want that, too. Want the sweet angel between them exactly there, where he’s safe and good and happy, always. Want him with them every night.

 

He belongs with them.

 

Steve and Tony know it. Peter knows it.

 

They just aren’t saying it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnngg they're drinking a lot of Dumb Boys In Love juice, huh
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovely people, hope you liked it <3


	6. Thai Chili Pepper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has a hot pepper and a nap, and then spends some more time with Steve and Tony (shocker).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “literal fucking hell” week is over, loves, and I’m So Fuckin Tired but so ready to write. On that note, I wrote this over the last, like, nine days, so sorry if it’s weird and choppy etc. On an unrelated note, does this count as hurt!Peter ? idk, boy eats hot peppers and he Should Not have, but it’s not like,, bad or anything. It’s also completely irrelevant to the later porn. 
> 
> Allegedly, this is the longest chapter I’ve written, but it doesn’t really feel like it and the quality/content seem kinda off to me, so I might come back and edit it. Whatever I guess, I hope you enjoy regardless <3
> 
> Also. Because the Russos are liars and Marvel us untrustworthy and the entire cast is in on it: I have no idea what’s true or not about endgame. All I know is that I’m not fuckin ready and no matter what happens I’ll be crying for forty days after I see it, and also that I’m never letting Tony Stark go, fight me Kevin Feige

Listen, ok.

 

Peter has burned his tongue before.

 

He’s taken sips of soup and hot chocolate long before they’ve cooled enough to be acceptable. He’s had his mouth feel like it’s on fire plenty of times, alright. Plenty. He’s eaten his fair share of spicy foods. And he’s not a _baby_  to it. He’s perfectly capable of burning the roof of his mouth on hot cheese and the tip of his tongue on coffee and taking a bite with too much hot sauce and handling it with nothing more than a wince.

 

This, though? Peter thinks he should have written his will before this. Because he’s definitely dying.

 

Right now he’s hunched over the kitchen sink, on his, shit, he doesn’t even know what time swirling milk in his mouth and spitting it out. Someone’s hand is on his back, rubbing it, and he’s not sure whether it’s Steve or Tony, but he knows for sure that both of them are laughing a little.

 

“So, you don’t like it?” Tony asks, and Peter can _hear_  the shit-eating grin he must have. Peter wants to snark him so bad right now, but he can’t speak, because that would require him to not have the soothing cold milk in his mouth.

 

He doesn’t even know what kind of pepper it was. They didn’t say. All they said was that there were spicy peppers on their sandwiches. Peter asked what they were having, asked if he could try it. He’s eaten enough spicy things to know that he can handle spice. He can handle heat. Except, apparently, no he can’t. Because he took a bite of Steve’s sandwich and now his mouth is on fire and he’s already been through a cup and a half of milk.

 

Goddamnit.

 

All he can really do is groan and throw a blind hand behind him. He swats Tony’s arm, spits out the milk in his mouth, and takes another sip immediately. Why the fuck are they eating such spicy shit? Why the fuck? What is their _deal_?

 

Peter can hear Steve chuckling behind him, and then the man’s hand in his hair, petting down the back of his neck.

 

“I told you it was spicy, Pete,” the artist says, but he sounds more sympathetic than anything. Peter just groans again, a little higher pitched and whiny than what’s dignified, but he can’t bring himself to care. The fire in his mouth is easing painfully slowly and he wants to eat ice. That was so dumb, that was so stupid, why did he do that. He should have asked what kind of pepper. Fuuuuuuck.

 

“Here, kid. Eat some of this,” Tony says, and then he’s beside Peter. The boy puts a dish towel to his face before looking up, because he knows he must have drool and milk on his chin, knows his lips must be so chapped and swollen. He can feel how his cheeks are hot and cherry red. When he lifts his head to see Tony, sure his eyes are watery because holy hell is his mouth on fire, the man’s offering him a piece of bread with what looks like sugar on top. Peter doesn’t question him, quickly taking it and biting in. Tony moves back behind and away from him again, though not before Peter sees him smirking in the corner of his eye.

 

The boy’s grateful, though. The bread seems to help, feels like its soaking up the spice out of his mouth, and he’s glad that both of the men are giving him the space to be dying in peace. He knows, but would rather not imagine how he looks right now. Messed up, for sure.

 

He downs the bread pretty quickly and is back to swishing milk around his mouth. The comforting hands don’t leave his back and hair, and eventually, Peter just leans over the sink, breathing with his mouth open, clutching the dish towel.

 

What a shit time he’s having.

 

He barely slept the night before, and now he’s burned every single one of his taste buds out of his mouth. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

The fire has died down, now, but he still feels the sting. His whole mouth is kind of numb and he definitely hates it, but it’s better than the burn. With a pathetic huff, he puts the towel to his mouth again and tries to gently wipe away what saliva and milk have no doubt escaped to his lips and chin.

 

“Better?” Tony asks, coming to stand on one side of him. Peter thinks he feels Steve mirroring the man on his other side, but his eyes are closed. Oh holy _shit_ , why did that hurt so much.

 

All Peter can do is nod. Nod and breath and swear on his own life that he’ll never eat, whatever the fuck that was, ever again.

 

“What,” he starts, but his voice gets a little messed up, so he clears his throat and tries again. “What was that?” He asks. He opens his eyes and sees the two men smirking, if empathetically, down at him.

 

“Thai chili pepper.” Steve says, reaching out and brushing Peter’s hair off of his forehead. The boy closes his eyes again and shakes his head.

 

“Evil. Thai chili peppers, are evil. Bad. Bad bad bad.” He croaks out. The husbands both chuckle at him.

 

“Yeah, alright. Whatever you say, Petey.” Tony says. Peter can feel the man’s hand come to brush lightly on his neck. Peter grumbles under his breath, dropping his head back into his folded arms against the counter, and even he’s not sure what he tried to say.

 

The two men let him mope there for a short while longer, before Peter finally lifts up his head. He wipes off his mouth again and leans back from the sink, taking a deep breath. That was awful. Everything from the last ten minutes, was awful. And now he wants to nap. Like, a lot. He was already feeling excessively tired today, a late night at work responsible for that ( _“You gotta work less, Pete. This is the third time this week your asshole boss kept you so late. Maybe you should find a different job?” Thanks, Steve_ ). But it’s amazing how much having your mouth set on fire by a fruit from hell (peppers should not be fruits. Any other fruit, like, a banana, some strawberries, even pomegranate wouldn’t do this to Peter. Evil peppers) can zap the energy out of you.

 

“Ok, well, I think I’m gonna head home,” he says, rubbing out his eyes with the back of one hand. He clears away the almost tears and is pretty sure his face isn’t cherry red anymore. He catches Steve narrowing his eyes and raising his brows, though. “Take a nap. Let my mouth not be on fire.” Peter elaborates. Steve adjusts his position against the counter, rubbing Peter’s upper arm and shoulder.

 

“You could do that here, Pete.” He offers. Peter gives him the most appreciative smile he can. These two. They’re too goddamn nice. Peter doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

“I thought you guys were gonna go for a run?” He asks. The plan was to go out after lunch. Steve and Tony were going to run, Peter was going to rollerblade. Because he can’t fucking keep up with them, period, let alone for as long as they go. He doesn’t have nearly their strength or stamina. In pretty much any activity, Peter’s mind supplies. Not on a regular day, and certainly not when he’s extra tired.

 

“Yeah, but you could stay here anyways. Or we could stay with you,” Tony says, moving closer to the boy. He lets his hand move behind Peter’s neck and the younger barely registers the familiar, comforting feeling of Tony’s fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head. The boy rolls his eyes off to the side with a pleased little grin.

 

“I don’t want you guys to _not_  go just ‘cause I’m not, and, ya know, I feel like that’s intruding of me to sleep at your house while you’re out,” he says. It seems like he’s always taking advantage of the husbands’ hospitality, and despite them being so quick to shoot down and console his worries, it’s something he thinks about a lot. He immediately regrets saying that, though. The “i-word”. Because now they’re going to have to overcompensate to assure him that he’s not intruding, even though that’s exactly what he’s doing, and now they’ll feel obligated to let him intrude more to prove that he’s not, when he is, and, ah _shit_ , why can’t Peter be better at not being a prick?

 

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Tony begins, pulling Peter a little closer to them by his neck. And the boy’s not sure if he just means the “i-word” or if Tony can read his anxious monkey brain. They do that a lot. The couple seem to always know what’s going on in Peter’s head, and it’s kind of ridiculous. The boy’s not sure if he’s just that easy to read or if maybe he spends too much time with them.

 

“You’re never intruding, baby. We’re always happy to have you here.” Steve says, giving the younger boy that stupid, perfect smile. Damn. How is that man so pretty. Peter doesn’t know. But he gets a satisfied warmth in his stomach (that is decidedly not from the horrible horrible hot pepper) at Steve’s words, and only vaguely wishes he wasn’t always accidentally prompting the reassurance.

 

“Stay, Pete. You can take a nap here, ‘cause I wanna cuddle when we get back from our run,” Tony adds. Steve shoots his husband a fond little smirk before turning back to Peter. The younger boy sighs a little and gives them a playful smile.

 

“Not until you shower, though.” He says. The couple chuckle a little and Steve pulls him in a little, kissing his forehead.

 

“Go lay down, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and Peter nods. He’s pretty sure there’s some kind of drug in these men, because he goes under when they touch him. Everything is underwater and out in space and he basks in it.

 

“Yeah, ok,” he mumbles contently. Tony’s hand leaves his hair and he slowly slides his way across the kitchen floor, socks moving from linoleum tiles to wood panels as he makes his way to the couch in the living room. The older men grin at him, watching with fond expressions, before they head to their room to change clothes.

 

The boy flops down onto the cushions, embracing the soft comfort. Peter’s pretty sure he must have been even more tired than he realized, because wow, laying down feels nice. It helps that Steve and Tony’s couch (and bed, and cozy chairs, and sunroom couch, and literally everything) is ridiculously comfortable. Just the right about of squishy and firm, like laying on a cloud, soft to the touch. Not to mention it smells like them. Like safe and good and home.

 

Peter lets that thought leave his head with a gentle push, resolving it to a topic for another day, and wraps his arms around the casual pillow, nuzzling into it. He stretches out all the way, his toes and the top fluffs of his hair just touching the ends of the couch. Perfect fit. His mouth still feels hot, too hot, but it’s manageable now.

 

A minute or so later, a throw blanket is being laid over him, and a glass of ice water set on the end table. Tony kisses the top of his head and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Back in a bit, angel,” he whispers. Peter hums in response. He vaguely registers the front door opening and closing, but he’s almost asleep by then.

 

***

 

When Peter wakes up, he feels good. Perfectly pleasant. He must have slept for just the right amount of time for his body to recuperate, because he’s left with a content, satisfied post-nap type of sleepy, rather than his previous tiredness, and his mouth feels fine again. Which, oh thank god. He’s warm, wrapped up in a sensation of secure heat, and something smells really nice.

 

He realizes after a few seconds of regaining his brain, that Tony is laying down with him. Behind him, spooning the small boy, arms wrapped around Peter. The man smells like the husbands’ shampoo and Peter smiles, eyes still closed.

 

“You did shower, thank God,” he murmurs sleepily, wiggling closer to Tony. The man smirks, and Peter hears Steve huff a little laugh from somewhere to the left. His legs are tangled with the man behind him and Tony kisses the back of the boy’s head.

 

“Mmm, almost didn’t, but thought I’d be nice to you,” he says. Peter can feel the rumble of the man’s voice against his back.

 

“Oh, how kind of you,” he scoffs, turning to face Tony a little. The man smiles down at him and kisses his nose.

 

“How was the run?” Peter asks, looking around and spotting Steve in the cozy chair on the other side of the end table. The artist grins at him, lounging into the cushions of the chair.

 

“Was fine. Saw a real cute dog over by the park. Her owner said her name was Shirley Temple,” Steve says. He gets a look on his face and rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair. “Thought about you, what we might do when we got home.” He adds, wetting his lips. Peter raises his eyebrows, rolling his shoulder back so he can look at Tony again. The man is smirking down at him, and kisses his forehead again.

 

Suddenly there are fingers at the hem of Peter’s shirt, slipping under the cotton and onto his tummy. Tony’s palm flattens against the boy’s smooth skin, thumb rubbing in a soothing way before his hand begins to explore Peter’s torso. Calluses, skin rough and soft but always gentle ghosts over the younger’s body, tracing the curves and divots of his somewhat toned stomach and chest. Peter melts into the touch, sighing contently and all but dissolving into Tony’s embrace.

 

He can feel Tony smiling against his hair, nosing at the side of his head. The man licks the shell of his ear and Peter shivers, swallowing hard. Tony feels it all and chuckles, kissing his temple.

 

“You’re so cute,” he muses. Peter knows he blushes at that, but he’s distracted by Steve getting out of the chair. The other man walks to the couch and kneels in front of the other two, resting his elbows on the cushion. He reaches over and cups Peter’s cheek, and Peter can feel the heat radiating off the two men, from their hands on him. Steve smiles at him adoringly, _hungrily_ , and leans forward, pressing their lips together.

 

They kiss somewhere between lazy and lustful for a while, Steve’s tongue finding its way into Peter’s mouth. It’s soft and wet and Peter moves his own tongue with it, turning his head a little, moving up on his elbow a bit so he can get a better angle. Steve’s other hand joins the first in holding Peter’s face, kissing the boy a little deeper.

 

One of Tony’s fingers brushes over Peter’s nipple and the younger sighs shakily into the kiss with Steve, his arms tensing. The pad of Tony’s thumb finds the small pink nub again, nudging it to hardness. He rubs around and over it, and pinches gently. Peter moans softly against Steve’s lips, his blush darkening. He can feel Tony peppering kisses to his hair and Steve’s hands tense a little at the sound.

 

“Sweet boy, does that feel good?” Tony whispers, pinching again. Peter’s second moan is a little higher, a little louder, and he’s disappointed when Steve breaks the kiss. He doesn’t release Peter’s face, though, just pulls away and looks at him with hooded eyes. Peter realizes that they’re waiting for a response, so he looks back at Tony, and then to Steve again, nodding at them both.   


“Tony,” his voice cracks. He thinks the flush must be spreading all the way down his body now.

 

He looks up at Steve’s face and sees the man’s eyes trained on his lips, so he pushes himself forwards. Steve drops back to him quickly, kissing him again, harder this time. Steve smells like clean laundry and cologne and it’s making Peter dizzy in a good way. Tony moves to his other nipple, fondling it and pinching lightly, caressing down and around his chest and tummy. His hand moves lower and lower until it reaches Peter’s shorts, toying with the strings for a moment before dipping inside.

 

Peter’s already hard from Tony’s actions and he can feel the man’s own hardening length against his back and ass. The inventor’s hand slides down and cups Peter through his boxers, and the boy loses his breath when he feels his whole hard length engulfed by Tony’s hand. The man’s fingers curl around the head of his clothed cock, rubbing back and forth. Peter whines into Steve’s mouth, squirming in Tony’s hold.

 

“Come here, baby,” Steve coos, pulling away from Peter and gripping his upper arms. Tony removes his hand from the boy’s pants and Peter bites his lip to keep from whimpering at the loss of contact, but then Steve and Tony are both moving and he’s sitting up. Tony stays behind him, pulling and slightly lifting Peter over his legs so that the boy is sitting in his lap. He wraps one arm around Peter’s waist, his hand finding the younger’s crotch again and groping him through his shorts. Peter moans, closing his eyes. Tony’s hand is hot and heavy on his erection, and he _aches_  for friction.

 

Steve reaches forward and grabs Peter’s jaw, the boy’s chin settling in the space between the man’s thumb and index finger. He kisses the smaller again, only this time it’s messy. A little fierce; more tongue, more teeth, Steve nipping Peter’s lip and disregarding the way their kissing quickly turns lewd. Tony groans and grinds up so slightly into Peter’s ass, and it makes the boy feel lightheaded. It’s crazy how turned on the make him, how _fast_  they get him there.

 

“Alright, Petey, these shorts, they gotta go,” Tony huffs in the boy’s ear, grabbing the waist of Peter’s shorts. He starts tugging them down before the boy even comprehends what he’s said, but then he flattens his palms against the cushion and lifts his hips a little, helping Tony push his shorts away. He doesn’t even realize at first that his boxers are going too until the cool air of the living room hits his groin and his cock is freed. Steve’s free hand takes over in disposing of Peter’s pants and underwear, and Tony’s arms move back to the boy’s lithe waist. He wraps one around the younger’s middle, and with his other, takes a loose hold of Peter’s cock.

 

Peter nearly chokes on his lack of air when Tony touches him, jumping in place, his whole body going rigid. He releases a shocked, _wrecked_  sounding moan as his hands fly down to cling to the man’s wrist, making Tony chuckle lowly in his ear.

 

“Ready for it already, huh? Want me to fuck you, angel? That it?” The man whispers, nipping Peter’s earlobe. The boy groans and he feels Steve smile into the kiss. The artist licks the younger man’s bottom lip, biting it gently and kissing along his jaw. Beside Peter’s head, he meets his husband and kisses him. It starts soft but quickly becomes heated, Tony beginning to stroke Peter’s cock at an agonizingly slow pace.

 

The boy bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, putting as much focus as he can into just breathing, trying desperately not to whine like a spoiled brat. God, he craves the couple’s touches, but he needs more. Steve’s hands find Peter’s hips and he tugs him down a little, making the boy slouch against Tony. Peter doesn’t wonder why. He just tries not to think so much about how warm and good Tony’s hand feels against his shaft, palm moving slowly up to his tip, only to drag the precome there down his length.

 

One of Steve’s hands disappears from Peter’s waist and he can feel the man lean away a bit, but he still keeps his eyes shut. Tony’s grip around his middle tightens ever so slightly and he picks up his pace, just a little. A few moments later and Steve’s presence is back, and Peter can hear the husbands kissing again, wet sounds coming from their lips. There’s a snap and Peter only realizes it was the cap to a bottle of lube when there’s a cold finger prodding at his barely revealed entrance.

 

He jumps again, eyes flying open, but Tony’s arm and Steve’s hand hold him down.

 

“Easy, honey, there you go,” Steve whispers, pressing kisses to the boy’s temple. The man’s finger circles his hole, smearing cold wetness around the tight ring. He presses lightly at the muscle, not breaching inside, letting Peter get used to the cold before he actually pushes his finger in.

 

It’s only up to the first knuckle and Peter makes his whimper die mostly in his throat, only a strained sigh escaping him. The stretch burns, it always does, but he’s mostly familiar with it now. Knows what to do to make himself relax and adjust faster. So he wills his stomach and thighs to release as much tension as possible and takes a deep breath.

 

Steve eases his finger into the second knuckle, and Peter can hear the two men, kissing and breaking only to give him huskily whispered praise and encouragement.

 

“That’s it, relax, baby,” Tony’s very, _very_  low voice says. He strokes Peter a little faster and it serves as an excellent distraction. Vaguely, the boy wonders if his shirt has gotten precome on it (he hopes not), but he doesn’t think on it for long. Steve slides his finger all the way in, and holy shit, holy shit. Every time feels like the first time, just one finger feels impossibly big. Peter moans at the sensation, wet and cold and hot and clenching down and stretched just right, all at the same time. He’s sure his eyes would be crossed and unfocused if they were open.

 

His breathing comes out ragged and his toes curl as Steve twists his finger, dragging it out and pushing it back in just a little. He bends it slightly, presses against Peter’s walls, massaging his insides. Peter gasps and sighs, restrained moans leaving him. It doesn’t take long at all for another finger to touch Peter’s hole, the first moving out just enough for the second to join it upon re-entry. It hurts, but in an ok way, a way Peter has learned he kind of likes.

 

The lube is really cold, too, which helps with the burning. Not that Peter’s particularly fond of how the feeling of conflicting temperatures adds to his cloudy-headedness (he doesn’t actually mind at all).

 

Steve pumps the fingers slowly, ever cautiously, working up to burying them entirely inside the tight heat of Peter’s hole and pulling out almost completely. His motions are careful, timed, practiced. Precision keeping the perfect pace; not so slow that Peter’s left wanting (though he is _painfully_  hard in Tony’s loose grip), but not too fast or rough that it hurts.

 

Steve parts his fingers only a bit at first, barely separating, but as Peter moans lowly, trying (failing) to suppress the noise, the man kicks it up a notch. It takes a few minutes for Steve to really, properly start scissoring Peter, and when he does, the boy lets his head fall forward and to the side. He’s clinging so tightly to Tony’s wrist, it takes real conscious effort for him to loosen his hold and hope he didn’t hurt the man.

 

“Atta boy, Petey. Just breathe,” Tony whispers. His voice is gravely and sends shivers up Peter’s spine; shivers he thinks the older man can probably feel through their shirts.

 

Steve finally removes his fingers, after ensuring that Peter is properly stretched. Peter can hear, and then _feel_  the way the man kisses across Tony’s face and to the edge of the younger boy’s face. The artist’s lips brush under his ear and trail down his jaw, then jump to his mouth.

 

Peter can’t suppress his moan when Steve kisses him. His lips are so warm and soft and his tongue wet with Tony’s saliva. It’s some different level of erotic; Steve kissing him, bruising his hips, as he sits in the man’s husband’s lap, Tony lazily stroking his cock. Just the acknowledgement of what they’re doing, what they so frequently do, gets Peter hotter. _Harder_.

 

“Please,” He pleads breathily. Even now, he still doesn’t really know what he’s asking for. He doesn’t have to.

 

“We’ve got you, sweetheart. We know what you want,” Steve practically growls. And then both of his hands are worming between Peter and Tony’s thighs, grabbing the small boy under the legs. Tony’s arm on his middle tightens, and then the two men are lifting him a little. The inventor’s hand leaves Peter’s shaft (his cock _weeps_ ) and quickly undoes the button of his pants. He’s unzipping and folding the hem down, pushing away his boxers just enough to free his cock.

 

Peter can feel how hard and hot and thick the man’s length is, springing to freedom under him. It makes him groan in Steve’s ear and he can only imagine that his face is cherry red by now. Precome smears wet against Peter’s slightly elevated ass and he can hold back a soft whine. He wants Tony to fuck him.

 

_God, he wants Tony to fuck him_.

 

Tony’s moving under him, and then Peter can feel the way the back of the man’s hand slides across his skin as he coats his cock in lube. Peter doesn’t really have a whole lot of leverage with his legs right now, so he plants his palms against the cushions and hoists himself up as much as possible.

 

“Ok, honey. Ready?” Tony asks, licking the shell of Peter’s ear again. The boy breathes a shaky breath and nods. He is so ready. So, so ready.

 

Tony smiles against his face and Steve kisses his nose, and then the fat, blunt head of the inventor’s cock is pushing against his entrance. Even with stretching, the man is _big_  and the way his tip presses into Peter’s small hole is downright painful. Wonderfully so, especially with the knowledge of what comes after he adjusts, but painful nonetheless. Peter tries but can’t stop the whimpers that escape his mouth.

 

Tony’s arm tightens around his waist even more, and though he doesn’t realize he’s been instinctively keeping himself off the older man’s cock, he finally pays enough attention when Steve is pushing him down. He gasps and pants and bites his lip, the little mewls breaking out of his throat as Tony’s tip presses and presses, burning before finally breaching the entrance. Tight muscle accommodates the best it can, Peter’s hole straining to allow Tony’s girth through, especially at their angle.

 

The cold lube and preparation Steve provided help, and both men aid him in staying up enough to descend slowly and carefully. In the end, though, it’s always Steve and Tony pulling him down further onto the man’s cock.

 

“Easy, easy, doing great, baby. You can take it,” Steve whispers at some point; Peter’s not sure when.

 

Eventually, after what felt like ages of the ~~worstbest~~ combination of pain and pleasure, Peter’s fully seated in Tony’s lap. The man is buried to the hilt inside him, heavy balls pressed against the boy’s ass. Peter sits now with his back almost flush to Tony’s hard chest, Steve still hovering in front of them.

 

“There you go, honey. Perfect boy, so good, such a good boy,” Tony groans. He bites Peter’s neck, just short of gently, sucking on the smooth skin. Peter moans, dropping his head back onto Tony’s shoulder, eyes barely open and glossy as he looks to Steve.

 

Holy _shit_.

 

The artist is staring at him with an expression of pure hunger, his pupils dilated and lips slightly parted, the entirety of his focus on Peter’s lips. He looks up just for a moment, meeting the younger boy’s gaze, then launches forward with aggressive speed, crashing their lips together.

 

It’s tongue and teeth again, and almost instantly a string of saliva leeks from the corner of Peter’s mouth. He’s had a whole lot of practice, but the smaller still can’t quite keep up with Steve (or Tony, for that matter) when he gets this fierce, this _frantic_ , and he moans pitifully as he tries to match the wild force with which Steve kisses him.

 

He feels split on Tony’s cock; speared by the thick length. It burns and it’s hot and lube and precome squelch inside him with every little shift of movement. He feels dirty already, in the best way. He’s not quite adjusted yet but he’s close, knows the stretch will give way to pure pleasure soon.

 

Tony pushes his knees under and between Peter’s, suddenly, then rights them back to their normal height and leans them out-- effectively spreading Peter’s legs. Knees bent over Tony’s thighs, his feet dangling off the outsides of the older man’s legs, Peter feels suddenly more exposed, his crotch wide open. Steve scoots forward on his knees, fitting so perfectly between Peter and Tony’s legs. It makes the younger boy flush red down under his shirt. Plus, taking away most of his own self bracing, Tony has left him to be completely impaled by nearly the entirety of his own weight forcing him down on the man’s cock. It has him whimpering, feminine and needy, into Steve’s kiss.

 

Peter doesn’t know how much time passes. Time is never real with these two men. But it doesn’t take that long, he thinks, for Tony to start moving.

 

First slow, gentle thrusts up. The man shifts his waist off the couch, rolling his hips into Peter. He grinds into him on the first thrust and his cock rubs so nicely against Peter’s prostate, the boy practically keens against Steve’s mouth. The artist groans, fingers tightening on Peter’s middle, no doubt going to leave bruises (Peter doesn’t mind. The first time it happened, it was Tony’s bruise, and both men had seemed conflicted between concern for harming Peter and a sick sort of satisfaction at having marked him. Once Peter assured them that it was ok, that he even kind of liked it, the bruises, if few and light, became a more common occurrence).

 

“Fuck, angel, you feel so good, so good,” Tony moans. He bucks his hips more forcefully, then, a sudden hit to the boy’s sweet spot that has his body lurching into Steve. Steve takes the motion like a pro, swallowing up Peter’s movements and rocking with him, then bringing him crashing back against Tony, pinning the three of them together, chest to back and chest to chest. Steve breaks the kiss to lick down the side of Peter’s neck that Tony isn’t already nibbling on, finding the boy’s collar bone exposed where his shirt is messed up.

 

Steve’s hands wander up under Peter’s shirt. Fingers ghost over his torso, the remains of lube spreading from the digits he’d stretched the boy with. He explores the younger’s tummy and chest as if it’s the first time he’s ever felt him. The same way he always does; a fresh, renewed reverence and delicacy and adoration every time they touch.

 

It’s intoxicating and incredible and addicting and Peter-- Peter is addicted to it.

 

Addicted to _them_.

 

He wonders if they feel anything even remotely the same for him, and might’ve thought more on the matter if his conscious brain hadn’t been kicked out of his head at that moment. Tony thrusts up hard into him just as he uses the arm on Peter’s middle to slam the boy back down, nailing into him. Just as he does, Steve’s fingers find Peter’s nipples, the swollen buds, and pinch the same moment the artist bites down on Peter’s neck. The very sudden, very intense influx of pleasure and stimulation has him spiraling quickly away from any and every coherent thought in the world. He ascends straight to cloud nine, abandoning his mind.

 

He moans louder, higher, unabashed, unable to care even if his cheeks do stain darker pink. He pants with his mouth open, gasping for breath that the two men caging him in keep stealing.

 

“Precious, sweet boy, you’re perfect,” Tony growls out, sucking a hickey right under Peter’s ear. He whines and doesn’t even think about how there’s no way for him to hide the mark. All he cares about is the pleasure. One of his hands, which he only then notices are grasping at Steve’s shirt, falls down to his cock. He barely gets his hand around himself, desperate to come, when Tony snatches up his wrist with his free hand.

 

“Not yet, baby boy, not yet,” Steve hushes his pitiful whimpers. He can barely open his eyes enough to see Steve, and when he does, he’s almost confused. The man is moving? No, no he’s not. That’s Peter, bouncing in Tony’s lap (with Tony’s assistance). Steve seems to study his face, looking down between them, rubbing his nipples again. Peter keens at the feeling and Steve groans, mouthing wetly at his jaw.

 

One of the man’s hands leaves Peter’s chest, trailing slowly down his body, dipping one finger into his navel just for a moment, skimming teasingly over the tip of Peter’s cock, directly through the bead of precome at his slit. Peter jerks and shivers at the feeling, but can’t do much more than moan. The artist’s free hand keeps moving and then he’s standing up, looming over the other two, leaning against the cushions. His hand finds its way to his slacks. Steve pulls them open and down, shuffling the pants and his boxers away just enough to release his own cock.

 

Peter wants to marvel at it; how thick and _long_  it is, flushed red, seeming to pulse with the gleam of precome shimmering on the tip. But he can’t _think_ , actually, with the way Tony is now hammering into him. All he can do is want and moan and whimper and _take it_ , and that’s really all he wants to do.

 

”Baby, look how hard Steve is,” Tony begins, and in the corner of his eye Peter can see the two husbands locked in a stare. “Why don’t you help him out, hm?” The man finishes, kitten licking over the few hickeys he’s already managed to leave on Peter’s neck.

 

The boy lets out a shaky breath, meeting Steve’s eyes. He looks with what he wants to be something that encompasses seeking both permission and guidance and conveying his desire. Whether that works or not, he’s not sure, but Steve understands. He moves back in close and  kisses Peter, his tongue hot, mirroring the heat burning inside his hole and pooling heavily in his belly.

 

“Go on, angel. Touch him, that’s it,” Tony encourages as Steve takes Peter’s free wrist, the one his husband isn’t currently holding, and guides the boy’s hand to his cock. Peter wraps his thin, small fingers around the large shaft, feeling how hot it is, how hard and tense.

 

Steve kisses him senseless. He couldn’t look down to try and coordinate his movements if he wanted to. It just sends him further from his logical mind, letting the men take control. Letting Tony hold him so tight and Steve wrap his hand around Peter’s, the artist’s so much larger than the boy’s, guiding him to stroke his cock. Peter doesn’t have to worry about doing anything right or wrong, doesn’t have to think at all. All he has to do is let the two men surrounding him, engulfing him, lead him blindly through it. That’s all he wants to do, anyways.

 

Tony pistons his hips into Peter, hammering into his prostate, forcing himself deep inside. It’s not as rough as he’s ever been; it’s honestly rather on the more gentle side of some of the sex they’ve had (particularly since that little discovery of Peter being able to, and liking to, take it rough), but it’s _intense_. Peter feels like he’s drowning a little, filled all the way up, brimming, on the verge of exploding and tearing to pieces. He loves it. Loves how the warmth and tightness are brewing in his tummy, thick and sloshy pleasure bubbling up, adrenaline sending waves of electricity through his blood. He loves it all.

 

And _fuck_  does he want to come.

 

But Tony’s holding one hand, and Steve is guiding him through a hand job with the other, so he really doesn’t have a lot of options.

 

He just moans pitifully and tries to wet his lips, fairly certain he’s drooling a little. Tony’s thick tip keeps grinding into his prostate and he’s so wide, so much of him inside Peter. It’s heaven and ecstasy.

 

Steve takes advantage of his open-mouth panting to kiss him messily again. It’s sloppy, their lips wet and too much saliva and uncoordinated tongues; at least, on Peter’s part. Even in a wrecked haze, Steve knows what he’s doing. Kisses Peter so hard, fills up his mouth with goodness. He pinches the boy’s nipple again, the attention to his pink nub sending an achy sort of fire through him.

 

“Ste-eve,” Peter whines. Both men chuckle around him, but the sounds are a little forced. A little wrecked. Steve releases Peter’s hand, allowing him to work on his own in favor of returning to the boy’s chest.

 

Peter’s mind may have abandoned him, but his body knows what to do. His hand moves on its own, stroking up Steve’s shaft. He runs his palm over the tip to smear down precome and knows just where to tighten, where to loosen, just how fast to go. He lets his nimble fingers work for him, tracing the bulging vein on the underside of the man’s length and fondling his heavy balls every now and again.

 

“That’s it, baby, oh, so good,” Steve moans. His breath is hot on Peter’s face, in his ear, against his lips. “Just like that, sweetheart. God, your little hand feels so good,” He rambles, nibbling down Peter’s neck. From under the boy’s shirt, one of his hands pulls down the collar so the artist can suck a hickey under his collar bones. It’s sharp and stings, the man’s teeth scrape soft skin, but his tongue is so smooth and wet against Peter’s milky flesh.

 

The younger moans, because he can’t do anything else, and pumps Steve a little faster, in time with the forceful thrusts of Tony’s hips. The inventor rocks into him, dragging his cock against the boy’s prostate, overwhelming him entirely. At some point Steve starts kissing Peter again, swallowing up all his sounds, but the boy doesn’t know. They’re on a different plane, now. Nothing but this. Nothing but them.

 

Eventually, Tony’s thrusts get a little sloppier. His rhythm starts to falter, the tempo changes, skips and slows and speeds up, and his hips begin to stutter. Peter takes it as his cue to clench down more and push himself down to meet the man’s stumbling thrusts. It’s not difficult, with Tony still moving him, nailing his sweet spot, Steve toying at his nipples and kissing him, feeling the man’s cock in his hand.

 

He squeezes the fist that Tony is restraining tight enough to turn his knuckles white and mewls, wanting to beg for his own release but finding that his voice won’t work, even if Steve breaks the kiss (he doesn’t).

 

It takes a few more minutes, but Tony starts to fall apart. Steve’s not far behind him. Their moaning gets louder, more distressed, and their movements grow messier.

 

“Gonna come, honey, gonna fill you up,” Tony groans. He holds Peter so tight the boy can feel breathing become a little difficult, but he’s a liar if he says he doesn’t like it. He presses his back against Tony and bounces his hips the best he can. The man nearly growls, morphing into a moan, and then he’s coming.

 

Peter feels the body beneath him go completely rigid and a stream of hot wetness fills him, spills out around him, overflows with warmth inside his body. Tony’s sound is almost animalistic as he traps Peter’s body to his. The boy clenches down, milking the older man’s orgasm with little bounces, feeling himself fill up with come, until Tony’s softening cock stops pulsing inside him. The inventor holds him tight still, but a bit more gently. He kisses Peter’s neck with a lazy, open mouth, just breathing.

 

Steve, on the other hand, is just getting close.

 

“Come on, baby, keep it up, that’s it,” the artist encourages, peppering kisses to both Peter and Tony’s faces. Tony kisses him back but Peter can’t even try. He’s lost to the pleasant soreness settling in his hole and the desperate pressure in his belly. He strokes Steve faster yet, willing the man to an orgasm.

 

“Good, good, don’t stop, Pete, make him come,” Tony’s voice rumbles. Peter keens and Steve moans, and then Steve and Tony are kissing again, another sloppy slotting of lips and crashing of teeth. A few pumps later and Steve is coming with a long, low groan. He spills all over Peter’s hand and it paints the boy and Tony’s upper thighs, staining his shirt, some even spraying onto Peter’s own cock. He moans at the sight and feeling, continuing to stroke Steve through his climax the way he knows he should.

 

Eventually Steve’s body relaxes again, sort of slumping into the other two, and Peter releases his hold. The artist takes his hand quickly, though, and brings it up between them. He looks expectantly at Peter, who takes a moment to get the hint. Once he does, though, his face goes pretty pink again, and he locks eyes with Steve as he slowly, tentatively, licks the man’s come off his own fingers. And then Tony is leaning further between them, and he takes Peter’s ring finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. Peter whimpers pitifully at that-- all he can think of is how both of his wrists are still held by the couple and he’s unable to touch himself. He needs it so bad, _needs_  it, tugging pathetically at his wrists and wiggling in Tony’s lap.

 

The inventor smirks, chuckling as he softly kisses Peter’s cheek.

 

“You wanna come now, sweetheart?” He asks teasingly. If Peter’s eyes had been open, he would’ve seen the playfully reprimanding look Steve gives his husband then, but all three of them know Steve loves the teasing just as much as Tony. The boy nods his head, opening his pretty brown eyes just enough to look at them with a desperate, teary glaze. He whimpers, praying that they’ll let him come now.

 

Thankfully, Tony smiles, like a literal fucking ray of sunshine or something, and kisses him again. Steve smiles, too, that stupid perfect goddamn smile, and he licks Peter’s cheek. Is he already crying? He can’t even tell.

 

“Alright baby, it’s ok. We’ve got you, doll,” Steve hushes, and then he’s guiding the wrist of Peter’s he’s holding to Tony’s hand. The inventor takes both of Peter’s wrists in one and holds them, not tight, not loose. Just holds them, bringing them up to his face and kissing all over Peter’s knuckles and fingers and palms. It’s a good distraction, because Peter doesn’t even notice Tony spreading their legs wider or Steve sinking back to his knees between the other two’s thighs until--

 

_Holy fucking hell_.

 

Steve closes his lips around Peter’s tip immediately, tongue circling the head of his neglected cock. He dips into Peter’s slit, making the boy’s back arch and forcing a feminine keen out of him at the pure shock, the bold of heat it sends through him, but Tony and Steve’s returning hands on his hips hold him still. The man kitten licks his head for a while before taking more of the boy down. It’s hot and wet but not tight; just engulfing. A complete surrounding of gushing saliva and precome, burning his cock in the best way, Steve’s smooth tongue working up and down and under his shaft. It’s not messy. Not like the blowjobs Peter often gives, when they’re already too long into sex and he’s totally disoriented and the husbands are too close to care. Steve knows what he’s doing and he does it perfectly, sending sharp sparks and rolling waves of pleasure through Peter. The pressure that pooled thick and heavy and hot in his tummy threatens to spill over, to explode right out of him.

 

Steve takes him all the way down easy, one hand coming to fondle his comparatively small balls, and Peter almost screams. It’s every kind of drug, every kind of high. He’s on fire with Steve’s mouth and it’s the sweetest feeling in the world, and he loses himself in it without a second thought. Everything is reduced to the way Steve’s lips press around his shaft, how his tongue slips along his skin and massages his cock, how he feels like his underwater and floating, can feel his precome being swiped away by Steve’s saliva.

 

And then when the man has his nose and almost forehead against Peter’s body, his cock entirely inside the man’s mouth, Steve sucks. Hard. Hollows his cheeks and _sucks_.

  
Peter does scream, though it’s not quite as loud as a proper shout and it breaks, wavers and falls apart as it leaves his lungs. It morphs into wrecked whimpers and broken moans, his back arching off of Tony, all his muscles tensing up. The heat inside his belly does explode, now, and he feels the fireworks going off throughout his body. He comes, a powerful stream of creamy release going straight down Steve’s throat. The man drinks it up easily, swallowing every drop, sucking Peter’s orgasm out of him until there’s nothing left to give, his whole body set on fire and extinguished, and he falls boneless against Tony.

 

His wrists are released and warm, gentle hands rub his thighs. His eyes are closed again, but he doesn’t think he’ll pass out this time. That nap did him a lot of good. Though, he’s definitely down for some lounging and cuddling, now. Yeah. Cuddling sounds nice.

 

So he burrows his face and curls his body in to the warmth surrounding him, nuzzling against Tony’s collar, breathing deep. A hand pets his hair and he hears Tony whispering to him.

 

“Did so good, baby. Did so good. That’s it, Petey. Nice and easy, you can come down nice and easy. There you go. Did perfect, angel. Our perfect boy,” he coos, nosing the boy’s hair and kissing his temple. Peter hums against him, weakly fisting his shirt.

 

Steve returns (when did he leave?) to them and makes his presence known, laying a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder, kissing the top of his head.

 

“Let’s clean up a bit now, yeah?” He offers, and then there’s a very soft, damp cloth rubbing down over Peter’s thighs. It moves to his cock, cautious of his sensitivity, and then strong, calloused hands are lifting his shirt over his head. He barely registers his nakedness before Tony is easing out of him and the stimulation distracts the boy. His entrance feels used and a little sore, gaping at the loss of Tony’s cock nonetheless. Steve wipes him down, clears away the come and lube and sweat from his body (with Tony’s help, of course), before the two men help him back into his boxers.

 

Those wonderful, gentle hands hold his arms and help him up a little, guiding his legs until he’s mildly “dressed” again (can they call it dressed if it’s just underwear?). Steve picks him up, then, and Peter’s half hooded eyes watch Tony clean himself and fix his pants, tucking his soft cock back inside the clothing. Peter wonders when Steve did that. Before, or after he got the cloth? The boy isn’t sure.

 

He doesn’t feel sleep tired. Not all the way. But he is sleepy. Sex will do that to anyone, but sex with this couple is a really good way to snatch up a person’s energy. As if he had a whole lot to begin with. So he wraps his arms as tight as he can (not tight at all) around Steve’s neck and noses into the man’s chest, taking a deep breath. God, that scent. So good.

 

Steve sits down in the recliner chair, Peter sideways in his lap, curled up against him. The man almost immediately, absently, starts to rub Peter's back, caressing his skin. Both husbands still whisper and coo soft praise to him as they re-situate. He sees Tony watching them fondly, stretching back out over the couch and rolling up the blanket. The man tosses it at them, and Peter wonders for a moment if he was supposed to catch it. Steve does, though, so it doesn’t matter. The artist drapes the throw over around them, wrapping the small boy up in it.

 

Feels alright. Soft and warm. But that’s probably less of the blanket and more of the artist Peter is snuggled up to, the boy thinks (distantly; he’s not all the way back yet).  

 

“Did so good, didn’t you, baby. Sweet boy, always so good for us,” Steve muses, whispering in his gentlest voice, the voice he always (only) uses after sex, when he knows Peter is the most vulnerable. When he’s the most disarmed. When his walls are still down after the husbands tear them away with kisses and fucking. Peter likes that voice. He always like Steve and Tony’s voices; they’re soothing. But he likes this voice especially. Makes him feel safe and ok.

 

Peter hums in response, snuggling further against Steve. His eyes are closed, but he knows he won’t sleep. Instead, he just listens as Tony picks up a book and starts to read. His voice is soft and still a little gravely and Peter likes that a lot, too. Puts good things in him, from his ears to his tummy to his toes.

 

So he listens to Tony read and basks in the warmth of Steve, not caring that the man is fully dressed and he’s in just his boxers (if Peter sticks one of his hands under the man’s shirt and flattens his palm for a little more skin-to-skin contact, a little more warmth, well-- Steve’s not saying anything). He listens to Tony read and he smells that good smell again, the Steve and Tony smell. The secure, calm, comforting smell. The home smell.

 

With that smell and Tony’s voice and Steve’s warmth seeping into him, soaking up through his skin and inside his core, maybe he does doze off a little bit. Just a little.

 

It’s no matter. He knows it’s ok. He knows _he’s_  ok.

 

There. With them.

 

Exactly where he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Peter’s situation in the beginning of this chapter comes from a very similar experience had by my brother’s friend, years ago. He took a bite out of a Thai chili pepper and spent the next fifteen minutes hunched over our kitchen sink while my brother tried not to laugh at him.
> 
> The longer plotty fic is coming along, babes. I said I was gonna write the whole thing before I post it but I might start posting after I finish a few chapters. Still not sure how long it’s gonna be. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading babes. Hope you enjoyed this, whatever the hell it was <3


	7. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure aftercare fluff from Steve/Tony's (mainly Steve's) pov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in this one (though there’s plenty of references), just more domestic fluff. This is like,,, less than half the length my chapters usually are, it's hella short, sorry!! Thanks to AIJ for the aftercare chapter idea, I was in some desperate need of fluff recently and you nailed it ;) 
> 
> Per usual, unbeta’d as all hell + not really any notes/warnings other than what I’m assuming is some tooth-rotting fluff. Thanks for reading and hope you like it <3 <3 <3

They kiss him gently. 

 

Steve presses his lips softly on smooth skin as he traces the tear streaks on Peter’s face, the boy's eyes still shut tight, down to his jaw. Tony peppers feather-light kisses to the younger’s neck and shoulder, working his way around and lower. 

 

Peter’s not responsive yet, so they just keep whispering sweet praise with soothing touches, waiting for his breathing to return to normal, for him open his pretty doe eyes. 

 

Each man holding himself up with one hand so the other can caress part of Peter’s chest and tummy, the husbands look to each other with satisfied little grins. They love this part, almost as much as what came before it. 

 

There’s the heat of everything, when they’re taking Peter, rough or gentle, when they make him cry and can feel it where they hold him as his mind turns off and he surrenders to them. Where their hands are on fire from his skin, where all they can think about is needing to touch him, touch each other. It’s a little desperate, a bit animalistic if they’re honest (they are), but it’s good. It’s so, so good, to see each other, to see _Peter_  come apart like that. It’s breathtaking and they’d be liars if they said they aren’t addicted to it. 

 

But what comes after is just as good. Just as precious and perfect. 

 

Letting their lungs correct themselves, feeling sweat (and, more often than not, come) cooling on their skin. Letting their voices return to normal and focusing on breathing. Keeping their hands on Peter, and usually their mouths, too. Whispering to him even when they know he probably doesn’t comprehend what they’re saying just yet. Keeping their tones easy and comforting, volume low. Waiting for him to come back to them (to what degree, it varies). 

 

The two men make a point of pressing their lips to each and every hickey they’ve already made. Tony kisses one just under Peter's ear, and Steve ghosts over the five on his neck, one in the hollow of his throat. There’s two on his collar bones, three scattered on each of his shoulders. They’re positively _littered_  down his chest and stomach. Steve’s not counting, but there has to be at least fourteen just on the small boy’s torso. Bruises markup his abs and beside one of his nipples, the lowest of the bunch falling between the v-lines of his hips. Tony kisses four hickeys on each of the boy’s thighs, and there’s a few on his back, they know, that they can’t even reach right now. 

 

Steve goes to work licking up the mess on Peter’s belly. He laps at the boy’s soft skin, clearing the remnants of his release. It’s a little bit salty and a little bit sweet, not really as bitter as Steve’s ever expected it to be. The older man wipes away the boy’s come leisurely, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Peter’s chest. Tony hums below him, looking up at Steve with content eyes as he noses into the small boy’s thigh. Steve smiles down at him and they share a soft kiss. Unhurried, while they wait for Peter to cool down. 

 

A slight stirring and a little louder of a breath draws their attention back to where the younger is slowly opening his eyes. He starts sitting up on his elbows, but Steve uses the hand on his chest to keep him down. Peter lets him easily, sighing contentedly as Tony peppers butterfly kisses to his thigh and hip. 

 

“Did so, so good for us, baby boy,” Steve coos, kissing Peter’s cheeks again. The boy gives them a little smile, and both husbands’ hearts nearly stop, it’s so precious. Soft and open and relaxed, so _trusting_  and _content_  and they want him to feel however he’s feeling right now-- always. 

 

“You’re perfect, angel. Completely perfect,” Tony purrs, and he moves back up to press a soft kiss to Peter’s lips. The boy kisses him back, barely, but seems entirely drained of energy. The couple doesn’t mind. It’s the whole goal, really. To tire all the worry out of the poor kid. 

 

Peter hums, light and high, and he opens his eyes half way. Steve’s lost in them, for a moment (maybe a minute), and he’s sure Tony is, too. They’re beautiful. Caramel brown and gleaming, a little pink-rimmed with tears. And there’s some chestnut locks, curls and wavy strands, a little damp and heavy on his forehead, and his cheeks are blushing prettily, his lips worried red. And he’s beautiful. He’s _stunning_. 

 

Steve can’t stop himself from smiling at the sweet thing under him, planting gentle kisses to his face. 

 

“Think we should get cleaned up now, sweetheart? Sound good?” Tony prompts. His voice is soft and kind, and Steve’s sure he’s mirroring the tone. They know Peter’s still pretty far in subspace and they also know it’s important to be careful with him. On top of that, they’d rather he stay in it as long as possible. Let him relax a little. 

 

Peter nods again, and his precious grin makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and his eyelashes brush his cheeks when he blinks. So Steve grabs him carefully by his upper arms while Tony slides a hand behind him, and they cautiously pull him up to a more upright sitting position. Before Steve even lets go, Tony’s gathering the boy into his arms, pulling lithe legs and Peter’s small frame against him. The younger looks like he wants to wrap his arms around Tony’s neck but is a little too weak to, so Steve gives him a sympathy kiss on the top of his head.

 

Tony carries Peter to the bathroom while Steve starts the water. There’s no way a shower is happening, not with Peter likely slipping in and out of consciousness, so he cranks the faucet and tries to find the perfect temperature for a bath. 

 

He settles with a little hotter than warm, before stepping in. Tony hands him Peter, a trade off as they both cradle him bridal style in their arms, and Steve lowers himself and the boy into the bath. Peter sighs when they reach the water. It feels like it’s seeping into Steve’s muscles and melting knots, so he can’t imagine how relaxing it must feel to Peter after all the tensing up he’d just done. 

 

Steve sets them down, Peter’s back flush to his chest, as they wait for Tony to join them. The tub is big, probably (definitely) more-so than necessary, and it’s easy for the man to slide in opposite them, relaxing between the other pair’s legs. 

 

They rest for a while, just cooling down (warming up?) from how intense things were. Peter definitely falls asleep for a few minutes, and Steve almost does as well. He finally convinces himself to pick up a washcloth, though, and sets to work. He’s gentle and cautious as he rinses and scrubs down Peter’s skin, cleaning him first of the aftermath and evidence. The boy’s awake enough to absent-mindedly trace Steve’s jaw as the older man grins down at him, and Tony reaches forward, taking Peter’s wrists so Steve can continue the bath. 

 

His husband rubs tenderly at the boy’s skin, dipping the younger's hands and arms into the water, lightly massaging and kissing where there’s bound to be bruises (Peter pulled so hard when Tony was fucking him, Steve didn’t have to squeeze much at all to know the kid was still going to have marks). Peter murmurs something incoherent, but grateful, and Tony coos at him, cupping his cheeks and kissing his face. 

 

Steve finishes with washing Peter and himself and hands the cloth off to Tony. While his husband cleans himself (which Steve watches shameless and appreciatively), Steve wraps his arms around Peter’s waist. He holds the boy a little tight, closing his eyes and peppering kisses to the back, top, and sides of his head. He noses at Peter’s temple and whispers sweet endearments to him, pecking the boy’s cheek when he preens a little.  _Cute._

 

Eventually, the water starts to cool, and Peter’s fingers are getting pruney, so the men decide to drain the tub. Steve lifts Peter out and shucks a towel onto the toilet to set the boy on while Tony grabs another cloth. The inventor dries the boy slowly, meticulously, making sure to catch every drop of water as it falls. While Tony dries Peter and himself, Steve towels off quickly and goes to find them all some clothes. He brings back sweatpants and t-shirts for himself and his husband, and Tony’s old MIT hoodie with a pair of Peter’s boxers for the boy. 

 

He tries not to think about the aggressively domestic _pride_  he feels at having a designated spot in the couple’s closet just for Peter’s clothes. 

 

When he gets back to the bathroom, he and Tony dress quickly (other than Tony being painfully flirtatious in putting Steve’s shirt on for him, which, fuck, Tones, Steve’s so spent he probably couldn’t get hard if he tried) but they take their time helping Peter into his clothes. Tony picks up his MIT sweatshirt and Peter reaches his arms out wordlessly, and Steve’s not sure if he’s trying to grab it to put it on himself or raising his arms so Tony can put in on for him, but it’s fucking _adorable_  and both older men have to keep themselves from fawning over the boy. Doesn't stop Tony from mentioning it, though. 

 

“You’re so cute, Petey, here. Let us help, ok?” He says, and Steve takes Peter’s hands, pulling them a little straighter and higher above his head so it’s easier for Tony to slide the boy’s arms through the sleeves. When they’re all dressed and dry save for their hair, Tony lifts Peter into his arms again. He heads towards the sun room (or, more accurately, the cloudy-winter-evening-viewing room, now), so Steve makes a stop in the kitchen first. He grabs two cups of water, popping a little bendy straw in one, and definitely does _not_ hurry back to his boys.

 

Tony’s sitting on the couch with Peter curled up in his lap when Steve gets there. He sets the glass without a straw on the end table by Tony, and uses his newfound free hand to scoop up Peter’s legs, sitting down next to the two and letting the boy’s calves fall over his lap. 

 

“Here, baby, drink some,” Steve offers, holding the cup out towards Peter. Tony sits him up just a little more and the boy (eyes still only half open, bless his soul), tries to hold the glass with both hands. Steve wraps his over Peter’s then, just for good measure, and, wow, the kid must be pretty far gone still, because he doesn’t protest at all. Not even a funny look thrown Steve’s way. Just pulls the cup closer and takes a few sips through the straw. Steve doesn’t let him push it away until he’s had a few more, though. 

 

When Peter’s done, Steve finishes the water and sets it on the opposite end table. He tosses a blanket over all of their laps, which includes Peter’s legs, but slips his hands under. Peter’s head is tucked under Tony’s chin and the man is still whispering little praises, thumbs tracing soft circles where they hold the boy, when Steve wraps his hands around Peter’s small shin. 

 

He’s so goddamn  _tiny_  in Steve’s grip, the artist has to swallow down the possessive urge to kiss the boy and focuses instead on taking a more efficient hold of Peter’s smooth calf. Once he’s good to go, he starts to squeeze and rub, working his thumbs and the base of his palm into the small boy’s delicate, pliant legs.

 

He works his way around, midway up the kid’s thighs, and all the way down to his feet. Steve presses along the middle of the underside of Peter’s feet and he can feel the kid squirm a sigh a little in his sleep (when exactly the ‘resting with eyes closed’ turned into proper sleep, Steve’s not sure. Probably a few seconds after his eyes closed, honestly). He digs the pads of his fingers into the boy's arches just a bit, and can feel the way he chases the knots and tension away.

 

When he’s satisfied with the effect of the massage, Steve takes his hands out from under the blanket, wrapping the throw over like a cocoon around Peter’s legs. Tony turns on some music, a playlist of mutual favorites between the three of them, oh-so quiet in the background, and grabs his tablet ( _“It’s the same design you’ve been working on for two weeks, Tony. If you’re so bored, maybe you could do the paperwork that’s been in the lab for the last month?” “Pep, this is important stuff. Real business work.” It’s really not, babe_ ). Steve has his sketchbook with, and commences to drawing the two beside him, drawing out the lines and curves and edges of the bodies under the blanket. 

 

He’s not entirely sure how long they stay there, Peter curled up and clinging to Tony’s shirt, head asleep against the man’s shoulder, legs crowded against Steve’s stomach (no doubt to steal his warmth). It must be something like two hours, because the clouds clear up and Steve can see a couple of the brightest stars breaking through the haze of city lights. The thin sheet of snow outside gleams a little, and Steve’s just finishing his drawing when Peter stirs. 

 

He opens his (pretty, pretty) eyes and looks a little lost and confused, so the husbands figure he’s not all the way back yet. Tony wastes no time fawning over him, reiterating praise. 

 

“How do you feel, angel? You were so good for us, did so well, tired you out pretty good, huh?” Tony whispers softly, kissing Peter’s forehead and temple. Peter hums and looks like he tries to say something, but coughs instead. Tony’s giving him water and going through another sequence of encouragement when Steve makes a second trip to the kitchen. 

 

He returns with a small bowl of grapes and offers them to Peter, he and Tony stealing a few of their own. Dinner was hours ago, and they’re sure they’ll be going to bed soon, but they’re getting a little hungry anyways. 

 

The snack does them all some good, and Peter shuffles off of Tony’s lap, worming his way in between them. Neither man can really take issue with this, of course, because it just makes it easier for them to smother him. Caressing his face and arms and thighs, giving soft rubs to his chest and tummy, gentle touches, brushing fingers through his hair and peppering his face and hands with kisses. 

 

“Sweet, sweet boy. You’re just precious, aren’t you?” Steve hums, nosing at the boy’s temple and pressing his lips to each of Peter’s knuckles, holding his hand like it’s fragile. Peter just blushes and tries to hide the equal parts embarrassed and pleased little grin on his face, mumbling barely audible ‘thank you’s and attempting to return compliments. The older men appreciate the effort. Love it, actually, though they wish he was better at accepting praise outside of his subspace. They’d work on that. 

 

Eventually they settle again, and Peter pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs under the blanket. He’s fit tight between the couple, something none of them have it in them to mind. Tony drapes an arm across the back of the couch, fingers finding the back of Peter’s head to card through his adorable, messy hair. Steve keeps a hand on one of Peter’s knees, thumbs tracing figure eights through the throw over. 

 

The two men go back to their work, both listening with probably too much attention to Peter’s steady breathing. Steve watches his chest rise and fall in his peripheral vision, finding it calming. Soothing.

 

Having him dozing off contently between them. It’s good. 

 

A lot better than good, actually, but they’re not really talking about that ( _yet_ , Steve’s mind supplies). 

 

He doesn’t bother to check the time, and despite being on an electronic, assumes Tony probably isn’t either. All he knows is that his eyes get heavy and he feels really, pleasantly tired when he looks down and notices Peter sleeping against him. Head on the side of Steve’s shoulder, knees fallen to lean towards him, Tony’s hand still absently playing with the boy’s hair. He smiles, familiar warmth seeping into him. 

 

This is right. Tony and Peter ( _and Peter_ ), here, with him. In the blissed out and sleepy state that they love just as much as the intensity that comes beforehand. 

 

In a few minutes, he’ll quietly suggest they get to bed, and Tony will feign indifference as he puts away his work, but really, they both know how much they enjoy cuddling close on the bed, their boy soft and safe and content between them. 

  
For now, though, Steve’s just going to add the finishing touches to his drawing. The shadows of Peter’s eyelashes. The little scar on the side of Tony’s neck. 

 

Last details, and then to bed. 

 

He imagines they’ll all be sleeping for a long time. Maybe they’ll make french toast in the morning (Peter’s taken a liking to it, so, naturally, that’s ended up with Steve and Tony _also_  taking a liking to it). 

 

He bends down and kisses the top of Peter’s head. The angel smells Steve’s shampoo and Tony’s hoodie and, fuck,  _fuck_ , Steve wants him to stay. Tony wants him to stay. They want him to stay with them. 

 

And they're pretty sure Peter wants to stay, too. 

 

Maybe (hopefully) they’ll talk about it later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They would not, in fact, talk about it later, because then I’d have no story for the plotty fic. 
> 
> Which, I should really stop calling a plotty fic, bc it’s honestly a porn-with-angst fic, actually. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks much for reading babes, hope you liked it <3


	8. Take It Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony take it upon themselves to teach Peter a lesson about working too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm. This is. Filthy? Absolutely filthy. Some properly filthy shit right here. 
> 
> Remember when I said that one 8.5k chapter was the longest one I've written? Laughable. This is almost 11k of porn with a little bit of set up, so I hope you're prepared to read a bunch. Sorry?
> 
> PSA: please please please read the notes/warnings and updated tags to see what's in this chapter, in case there's anything you might not like or might not be into!!! V important!! If you aren't into the stuff in this chapter, you can skip it, rest assured there will still be plenty more chapters added that are less,,,, kinky. (just so it's out there, there will be more kinky shit, too).
> 
> On an unrelated note!! Holy shit!! So the plotty fic that I was feeling iffy about bc really the only plot device I had was angst, now has actual plot!!! (still way too goddamn angsty but bc of who I am as a person I promise you right now it all gets resolved with happy endings) Real actual Things that Happen!!! Angsty porn /with/ plot!!! I gotta do a lot of rewriting the bits I already have, but now that I'm actually like,,, pretty satisfied with what the story is gonna be, I'm gonna bust ass writing it!
> 
> With all of that excessive note said (sorry, apparently I'm incapable of being concise), thank you so so so much for reading, and I hope you like it <3
> 
> notes/warnings: contains sounding (if you don't know what that is pls dear god do not let me be the one to show you) + inaccurate portrayal of aforementioned sounding (you can come while being sounded irl but Peter can't in this chapter bc I'm cruel to him), vibrators, orgasm control + delay, “punishment”, and some pretty intense subspace!

Peter’s shift ended late. _Again_.

 

It’s become his new normal in recent weeks, going in early and leaving hours late, only to come back for another shift the same day. He’s exhausted, really, but his rent skyrocketed this month because of a fire in the building that has to get the lobby remodeled, and he can’t afford _not_  to work all the time. The money is due at the end of the week, so he’s made sure not to pick up extra shifts on the weekend, plus take Monday off.

 

He’s barely held together at this point, though, and is honestly not sure if he’s going to last four more days of double shifts _and_  classes. He talked to his professors (which took a lot of effort and encouragement to be able to do) and they’re understanding that his quality of work might decrease recently, but Peter’s still getting almost no hours of sleep to try and keep up his grades.

 

He goes to work for ungodly long shifts. He eats canned soup and cereal whenever he can. He spends most of the night working on his assignments and studying, consuming a dangerous level of caffeine, and then he sleeps with whatever time he has left.

 

Needless to say, people are noticing. May scolds him about it, but she really can’t say much considering the shifts she used to take when Peter was in high school. Mostly she just offers support. Ned and MJ give him looks and send him funny posts on Instagram to try and cheer him up, and MJ has shown up at his apartment twice at two am with Chinese takeout, forcing Peter to put down his textbook and eat vegetable stir fry. But they too don’t do much more than lecture him about his health and offer the best encouragement they can. Peter won’t let any of them help him with his rent, and he’s almost reaching the point where he thinks letting them help pay would have caused them less stress and irritation than them fussing over him for the last half month, but he sticks to it.

 

He’s stubborn like that.

 

Two people who are less that pleased and intend to act on it, though, are Steve and Tony Stark-Rogers.

 

Peter hasn’t really been able to spend much time with them at all. His rare days off have been spent sleeping and catching up on school work. Since he can’t really find the time to properly hang out with his friends or aunt, mostly he’s just gone to their houses (apartments) and done his sleeping and homework there. In the last three weeks, Peter’s really only been able to see Steve and Tony a handful of times, all of these occasions where he’s too tired to do anything but eat the dinner they prepare and pass out in their arms. They keep offering to help him pay, going so far as to threaten to let him pay them back (though, half the reason Peter doesn't take them up on that offer is he  _knows_ they wouldn't actually let him, because they're crazy like that apparently), but Peter refuses. Some messy combination of pride, fear of how considerate and generous they are to him, a craving to prove himself capable (of what, Peter? Stressing out? Pulling two all-nighters in a row? Real mature and impressive, yeah), and stubbornness (maybe even spite. He's made it this far, he's not going to cave a week out.) keeps him from accepting the help.

 

(It got so bad they almost  _argued_ about it. For real almost argued about Peter not letting them pay his rent. They managed to shut it down before getting actually upset, but it was kind of a wake-up call to all three of them about how both stubborn and caring they all are.)

 

The couple have had just about enough of that, it seems.

 

Peter gets a call from Tony, just as he’s entering his apartment. He answers it, shucking off his jacket and slipping out of his sneakers, trying his best so sound less tired than he is.

 

“Hey, Tony,” he starts, dropping his bag on the table.

 

“What’s up kiddo?” Tony asks. Peter shuffles his way along his counters, yanking a cupboard open.

 

“Not much. Just got off work,” he says absently. He’s out of soup.

 

“Just now?”

 

“... yeah.”

 

“Jesus, kid. Tell me you’re, at the very least, working normal hours tomorrow.”

 

Peter chooses to remain silent.

 

“The next day, then?”

 

Nope. Not answering that.

 

“Friday. Please tell me you only have one, eight hour shift on Friday.” Tony sounds so concerned, it makes Peter’s head and his heart hurt. Maybe he should take some meds.

 

“Uh… n-not, not really,” he mumbles sheepishly. He can hear Tony groan.

 

“ _Pete_. You’re gonna work yourself to death.” The man says. His voice has the barest hint of disappointment and it makes Peter want to throw up.

 

“My rent’s due Friday, and then I’m done with the overtime. I took the whole weekend _and_  Monday off,” he argues, hoping that will offer some reassurance.

 

“You better not do shit any of those days.” Steve’s voice sounds far away and Peter wonders if he’s on speakerphone.

 

“I mean, I’ll have homework to do, and I have to see Ned and MJ and my aunt because I haven’t seen them in ages, and-” he’s cut off by Tony.

 

“First things first, you’re going to sleep. You’re going to sleep in until at least noon on Saturday, and then you’re going to nap again in the afternoon. We’re gonna bring you some good food, because don’t think we haven’t noticed you losing a couple pounds. You haven’t been eating or sleeping right, so on Saturday, we’re gonna fix that. Ok?” He pauses, and Peter sighs.

 

“Alright.” He can practically hear Tony smiling.

 

“Good. And then Sunday, you can spend time with your friends and your aunt and catch up on your homework. Sunday.”

 

Peter can’t help but stifle a breathy giggle into his palm. Tony is. Tony is worse than May. Tony and Steve are worse than May and Ned’s grandma combined.

 

“Ok, Tony.”

 

“And then on Monday, you should come over to our house. Think you’ll be up to that?” The man asks, and Peter smiles to himself. Yeah, ok. In what world would he not be up to that?

 

“I’d like that, yeah,” Peter grins, pulling out a jar of peanut butter and bread. He should get some more soup.

 

“Good. Because we have to check on our boy, and, of course, we’ll have to work on your punishment.” Tony says, nonchalantly, like that last bit doesn’t make Peter choke on air.

 

“Wait, w-what?” He stutters. He can hear Tony and Steve suppressing laughs on the other end.

 

“We told you constantly not to work so hard, Petey. Did you listen? Nope. You really need to learn a lesson about knowing your own limits and _respecting_  those limits. So we’ve got to punish you for overworking yourself.” Steve says, matter-of-factly, like that’s a normal fucking thing to say. Peter swallows hard and he’s pretty sure the couple can hear it.

 

“We’ll let you get on with your evening then. We’ll call you tomorrow, ok?” Tony says. Peter nods dumbly, before remembering they can’t see him.

 

“Y-yeah, ok.”

 

“Alright. Get some sleep, baby. Talk to you later,” Steve says, and Peter thinks he hears Tony make a kissy sound.

 

“B-bye,” he stutters, and then the call ends. He sets his phone on the counter, and decides that thinking too much about his impending ‘punishment’ will only aggravate his headache. He’ll worry about it tomorrow.

 

So he makes his peanut butter sandwich (he’s out of jam, too. Damn) and does half of one of his math assignments that’s due Friday, knowing he’ll have to re-do at least twelve of the problems that he’ll mess up tonight in tiredness. He showers until the water turns cold (so, really, only about half an hour) and puts on a long sleeve and joggers, because he’s chilly tonight. Shit. He’s probably getting sick.

 

The next day, Peter’s cold hits him (he was, in fact, getting sick) and he works his way through classes and a double shift with tissues, cough drops, and a surplus of ibuprofen. Tony and Steve call him around nine, which he takes a break and goes into the hallway to answer, not wanting to miss their call or tell them that yes, he is still working.

 

That’s how the rest of the week goes. On Friday he hands in four assignments and gets his paycheck as he’s leaving work. After which he makes a stop by the bank, and two minutes post entering his apartment building, he’s paying his rent. It feels good and awful at the same time, to hand over such a large sum of money that he worked his ass off to get, but finally, _finally_ , he’s done.

 

He’s a zombie until his head hits his pillow. He doesn’t bother eating dinner, and passes out in record time.

 

Tony was right. He sleeps until 11:30 on Saturday, only waking up to his phone buzzing. He answers the call and it takes him to his front door, where Steve is standing (Tony had a Stark Industries thing, apparently) with plastic tupperware of salad, two sandwiches wrapped in paper, a fruit smoothie and vitamin water. Peter almost cries.

 

He eats one of the sandwiches, half the salad, and finishes both the smoothie and the water before he showers. Steve sits on his bed and rubs his back, talking softly to him until he passes out again at 2pm, and when he wakes up, it’s almost 7:30. There’s a plastic tub of linguini pasta with what must be some kind of veggie-blend sauce (because it tastes like broccoli and avocado and has little shreds of leafy greens in it) sitting on his table, and a large mug of tea in his microwave.

 

He almost cries again, then, because goddamn are these two men too fucking good to him. He refrains, though, texting them a thanks for the food, and he only works on homework for an hour or so, browsing documentaries after dinner before he passes out on his couch.

 

Sunday is a blessing. He wakes up and his cold is all the way gone, and he’s gotten more sleep in the last thirty-some hours than he had in the previous week total. Ned and MJ bring him on a walk that takes them past the pier and canal, and around the park. It’s sunny and he almost forgot how funny his friends are, and they see a movie after. He spends the afternoon and evening with May, catching up and making lasagna together. So when he goes to bed that night, he’s never felt more energized and good-sleepy and _content_.

 

Steve calls him around 10 on Monday morning.

 

Peter showers and puts on a hoodie and some joggers, pretty sure they’re planning on a day-in (not like he minds wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt out in public anyways), and walks to the husbands’ house. The first thing he does is thank them again for Saturday. They tell him it’s no problem (that’s what they always say).

 

He’s actually forgotten about his ‘punishment’ until Tony brings it up, as he and Steve are crushing Peter in a hug.

 

“Remember, just ‘cause we’re happy to see you doesn’t mean you’re getting out of your punishment.” He says, his voice low in Peter’s ear. The younger shivers and goes a little tense, wondering what the hell they’re planning. He thinks there can’t be much harm in voicing as such.

 

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. You’ll find out tonight,” Steve smirks, and Peter knows the two taller men are sharing some terrifying we-know-and-Peter-doesn’t eye contact.

 

They pull away from the hug so Tony can lightly push Peter in the direction of the kitchen.

 

“Come on, we’re making cakes.” He says, and Peter’s brows shoot up.

 

“Cakes?” He says, trying (failing) to keep the child-like excitement out of his voice.

 

“Cakes. Four of them are for the Stark Industries staff, one of them is for us,” Steve explains, throwing a wink to Peter. The boy blushes but grins, and helps pull out bowls.

 

Apparently, the Stark-Rogers couple are passionately opposed to pre-packaged cake boxes, and are adamant about making everything from scratch. So Peter goes about retrieving bags of flour and sugar, hopping on the counter for the vanilla extract he can never reach (he misses the pair of fond smiles that watch him), cocoa powder and cream.

 

Peter is. Not good at keeping ingredients off of himself. He gets flour all over his apron and hoodie, and powdered sugar on his forehead, and chocolate batter on his cheek that Steve finds it necessary to grab his chin, tilt his head up and to the side, and lick off. By the time they’re finished with all five cakes, adding in their lunch break for turkey wraps, it’s almost five in the afternoon.

 

As they’re finishing drying the washed dishes and closing four of the cakes up in tupperware and metal containers, Tony requests Peter change his top, handing him an old band shirt to replace the flour-covered hoodie. Peter, feeling cheeky, pulls off his sweatshirt right there, and reaches out to take the shirt from the older man. Tony pulls it away though, blatantly distractedly eyeing Peter’s bare torso, before meeting the boy’s eyes and smirking that ‘you know what? You’re actually fine just like that’. Peter rolls his eyes and snatches the t-shirt anyways, blushing as his confidence flees him.

 

They have cake for dinner. Vanilla and strawberry marble with fluffy frosting and sprinkles on top, the three of them watching a mystery movie that none of them can remember the name of, sitting on the couch. Peter has his back partly against Steve’s shoulder, one of his legs pulled up to his chest (his plate of cake resting on said knee), the other flung across Tony’s lap. They’re all more engrossed in the movie than they’ll admit, despite the jigsaw plot being hard to keep up with until the end, when the protagonist puts it all together.

 

The credits roll, three plates and forks cleared of cake piled on the coffee table, Peter’s mouth a little open.

 

“Oh my god.” He says, cast and crew names appearing in lists. “I can’t believe it was the mom. I thought it was gonna be the older son. I was _completely convinced_  it was the older son.” Tony scoffs.

 

“I thought it was the police officer, actually. That detective guy.” He sounds bewildered. Steve nods along.

 

“I thought it was the mom right from the start, but fifteen minutes in and I had no idea who it was gonna be.” He comments, reaching for the remote. Peter shakes his head, and a yawn sneaks up on him.

 

“Hey now, none of that. You still have your punishment yet tonight,” Tony says, brushing a lock of hair from Peter’s forehead. The boys eyes whip up and he looks between Steve and Tony anxiously. He forgot about that, _again_. And hell, all the waiting is making him sweat. When neither man says anything while Peter flips between them, the boy groans.

 

“Come on, guys, you’re making me super nervous,” he whines (just a little), raising his brows and curling in on himself a little. Tony catches his ankle before he can pull it in and smirks at the boy.

 

“My favorite hobby,” he grins. Peter scoffs and play punches the man in the shoulder, making both husbands chuckle.

 

“Dick,” Peter frowns, but the corners of his mouth are twitching up. Tony just smiles at him for a few more seconds, before his hand comes to cup the side of Peter’s face and he leans in. His lips are hot on Peter’s and his mouth tastes like cake when he slides his tongue along the boy’s. Peter moves into the kiss a little, one of his hands coming to lightly grab at Tony’s shirt.

 

Steve moves behind him, pulling one leg up onto the couch and turning so he can wrap his arms around Peter’s waist, pulling the boy flush to his chest. Peter lets out a breathy moan at the action. He’s getting really warm really fast and Tony’s tongue is making his head spin. Shit, he really hasn’t done _anything_  for _weeks_ , and it’s definitely showing.

 

He whimpers as Steve’s hands venture under the shirt. The rough but gentle pads of the man’s fingers slide along Peter’s milky skin, up his tummy and chest. The artist finds the boy’s nipples and he gasps into Tony’s mouth, feeling the older man smile in the kiss. Steve nudges at his buds, rubbing lightly over them and pressing a little until they’re hard and sensitive. He takes them between his thumbs and index fingers and pinches slightly, pulling just barely, making Peter squirm and tighten his fist around Tony’s shirt. Tony rubs gently on his ankle and breaks the kiss to lick Peter’s bottom lip, nipping it.

 

Steve pinches hard(er), suddenly, and Peter barely sniffles a cry into a breathy moan. Tony grins at him, kissing along his jaw and nibbling at the skin under his ear. One of Steve’s hands leaves Peter’s shirt to grab the collar of the top, already oversized on the boy, pulling it easily off his shoulder. The artist places soft, hot kisses to Peter’s skin, pinching and rubbing at pink nubs as Tony works a hickey high up on his neck.

 

“T-Tony, I, S-Steve-!” His plea morphs to a whimper as the man bites his shoulder.

 

“You’re alright, sweetheart. We’ve got you,” he hushes, licking the spot where his teeth left red marks on Peter’s unblemished skin.

 

Peter just mewls pitifully at the sensations, breathing shakily. Tony’s free hand caresses the knee he has bent up, then trails down (up?) his leg to his crotch. Peter almost chokes on air, feeling the man’s large hand cup the entirety of his hardening length. He grinds his palm where the head of Peter’s erection is starting to strain against his boxers and joggers, and the boy’s back arches, an embarrassingly needy sound escaping his throat.

 

“Pretty boy. We’re gonna try something new, ok?” Tony says, and Peter feels himself nodding and forcing a whine to stay in his mouth when the two men start pulling away. The contact doesn’t leave him for long, though, Tony grabbing him under the thighs, Peter latching onto the man’s shoulders and helping the inventor lift him up.

  
  
Tony’s mouth is on his neck as soon as they’re upright, and Peter wraps his legs around the man’s waist. He doesn't register that Steve is ahead of them until the bedroom door is opening and Tony is walking Peter inside. The only light comes from the hall and the haze outside, and Peter relishes in the comfort of the husband’s bed under him. _God_ , he missed this mattress. It’s such a good mattress. So, so comfy.

 

He reluctantly releases his grip on the inventor’s shoulders as he’s set gently on the bed, turning up when Steve and Tony both place a hand on his thighs, looking at him with those outrageously kind, gorgeous faces. Shit. Why are they perfect.

 

“Listen, Petey. We’ve got something new that we could try, but only if you’re up for it.” Tony begins. Peter raises his eyebrows a little, because he’s super turned on right now (his hard on is so obvious through his joggers, it’s embarrassing) but also confused. And nervous. Kind of really nervous.

 

“You know we’d never do anything that could hurt you, right?” Steve prompts, and Peter. Oh, hell. He feels a million different kinds of warmth flooding his veins at that, and he nods. “Ok. Let us show you, first.” He adds, and then Tony is pulling away and fishing through a drawer. Peter blinks and lets his eyes stay closed, feeling the heat of Steve’s hand on his thigh. It’s good. It’s grounding. He wills his heart to slow down.

 

“Alright, baby,” Tony’s voice says, and Peter opens his eyes to see the man holding… huh. It’s like a little pipe, kind of? A short rod, only a couple inches long, metallic maybe, by the grey color and shine of it. It’s very thin, solid all the way through, with a larger sized marble-looking sphere at the top. And Peter is.

 

Peter is very confused.

 

The husbands seem to pick up on this, and then Tony starts explaining what it is. Explains what sounding is, and Peter’s ears and cheeks got hotter and redder with every word. It goes. They put it. Holy shit. He can feel his heart pounding like a rabbit and he’s really not sure what to do, because the very idea of putting _that inside him_  is positively _terrifying_.

 

“It’s ok if you don’t want to, angel. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But if you’re up to try, we promise, it won’t hurt, and it’ll help you feel really good later. Or we can put it away right now. Don’t stress about it, sweetheart. What do you think?” Tony says. Peter swallows hard. Ok. Ok, he trusts them. He trusts the husbands probably more than what’s healthy, if he’s honest. And he trusts that they’d never offer him anything that could hurt, and, _fuck_. Peter’s completely freaked out, but.

 

He trusts them. And he doesn’t want to disappoint them by refusing (though he knows they actually never would be. Disappointed, that is). And if he’s honest, he is, at the very least in some small corner of his mind, intrigued. Curious.

 

But shit, he’s scared.

 

He remembers that doing the things that scare him have always paid off in the past with the husbands, and he clings to that. Clings to that notion and how much he trusts them, and he’s nodding before he lets himself think any more.

 

“You wanna try?” Steve asks. Peter forces down the lump in his throat and nods again, and it takes him a few breaths even after he’s opened his mouth to get the words out.

 

“Y-yeah,” his voice is shaky. He looks up at the two older men, not sure exactly how he looks but positive that they can see how incredibly vulnerable and nervous he feels. The two smile at him, all full of reassurance and pride and good things and, fuck, ok. Yeah. Peter trusts them.

 

“Ok,” Tony says, and then he’s leaning forward and giving Peter a peck on the cheek. He pulls away, but Peter doesn’t get a full breath in before Steve’s lips are on his. He closes his eyes and lets the man’s tongue into his mouth, wet and hot and exploring as if the canvas isn’t already memorized.

 

Slowly, tentatively, Peter wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, lacing some of his fingers in the short blonde hair at the back of the man’s neck. Steve smiles into his kiss, one arm snaking around Peter’s waist, leaning forward and pushing the boy back until he’s almost laying down. Steve climbs over him, bracing himself with one hand and dragging Peter up the bed to center them both, and the younger won’t ever admit how much his heart spikes at the display of strength.

 

Ok. So he _doesn’t mind_  the manhandling. Big whoop.

 

Steve kisses him hard until his head is pressed firm against a pillow, and Peter responds in turn by tightening his grip around Steve’s neck, pulling him down a little lower. Steve’s hand ventures to his shirt and slips under, moving the fabric with him as he slides up the smooth expanse of Peter’s milky skin. He pulls away, to the boy’s displeasure, to remove the top entirely, his own following after, tossing them away, forgotten in the room. It’s… painfully hot, seeing Steve towering above him, broad shoulders and rock solid chest, dropping down and catching his lips again. Peter moans, feeling the heat of their bare torsos almost touching.

 

He’s grateful, when hot, calloused hands are pushing and pulling his sweatpants down, that the fingers latch onto his boxers and drag them away as well. Partly because his cock is really hard and being held down by fabric was starting to get quite uncomfortable, and partly because he would’ve been really embarrassed by the wet spot he’s sure is adorning his underwear now. He feels his hard on bounce up, flush against his tummy, already starting to dribble precome.

 

He moans, squirming in place, barely resisting the desire to buck his hips up against Steve. The man pulls away grinning, kissing Peter’s cheeks.

 

“Shh, honey. We’ll give you what you need,” he begins, shifting off of Peter so Tony can join by his side. God, the small boy is weak for that. He feels rather than sees Tony taking hold of his cock, and his breathing catches, a needy whine escaping him. Tony strokes him a couple of times, and then Steve’s hands are on Peter’s hips and his lips brush the younger’s ear, whispering. “We still have to punish you, though.” He smirks, and Peter knits his brows together, about to ask, hell, he doesn’t even know what, when there’s something very cold touching the slit of his cock.

 

His hips jerk and his body almost convulses, but Steve’s hands on his middle and the man’s body still partially on top of him keep him still.

 

“Take it easy, angel. I’m just putting it in, it won’t hurt. Just tell us if you want to stop, ok?. Hold still now,” Tony’s voice coos, and Peter whimpers as the cold touches him again and fear bubbles back up in his belly. He closes his eyes and his breathing picks up fast, so Steve kisses him again, whispering to him.

 

“Shh, shh. It’s ok. You’re alright, baby, that’s it, just relax,” The man hushes, kissing along Peter’s jaw. The boy tries his best to relax, but finds himself completely tense as the cold goes _in_.

 

 _Holy shit_.

 

It’s weird, it’s weird, it’s so weird. Something cold and slippery is dipping inside him where he’s never felt anything before. It’s like the nerves in his cock don’t know what to do, having never been stimulated from the _inside_  by an _outside_  force. It’s so incredibly weird and Peter tries his best not to squirm, but really, it’s Steve’s grip on him keeping him still. He whimpers again as it moves deeper inside him and it’s sending off so many different signals in his brain, he can’t figure out what he feels more, what he feels at all.

 

He feels cold settle largely around his tip, and the rod doesn’t move any deeper inside him, so he figures it’s all the way in, up to the marble at the top. He swallows thickly and takes a shaky breath, opening his eyes slowly. He doesn't even realize there are tears pooling under his eyes until Steve wipes them away.

 

“That’s it, sweetheart. It’s over, you did so good. See? It didn’t hurt you, baby, we’d never hurt you,” Tony whispers, kissing the tip of Peter’s cock, hot lips around the cold sphere making the boy jerk again. Tony chuckles a little, moving up, peppering soft kisses all over Peter’s chest and shoulder. “Brave boy, did so good,” the man continues. “Now we can start your punishment.”

 

Peter feels his whole body go tense at that, but his conscious mind is slipping away more and more by the second. He whimpers and only now notices that Tony’s naked, too. He stares at the man with watery eyes and wants to plead to him. He’s not sure what for.

 

The snap of the cap of lube catches his attention, and he watches as Steve coats his fingers, rubbing the slick around to warm it up. Tony kisses along his jaw again, hands running soothingly up and down Peter’s sides.

 

“Relax now, sweet pea,” The inventor whispers, his husband pulling away and moving between Peter’s legs. The man spreads his thighs out wide, getting comfortable in front of the boy, rubbing his thighs gently. He kisses each one, opening his mouth to graze his teeth and suck, leaving a love bite on Peter’s creamy skin. The younger can’t do much more than moan, feeling a wet finger start to prod at his entrance.

 

He jumps at the feeling, but the husbands hold him still, and the sensation of the cold, thick rod (it looked so skinny in Tony’s hand, it’s so thin, why does it feel huge inside him?!) in his cock and the two mouths littering hickeys on his body help to distract him. His breath keeps getting stuck in his throat, airy, broken moans forcing their way out of his mouth as the sting and soothe of teeth and tongue on his skin gives him whiplash.

 

Steve’s finger finally breeches his hole, the ring of pink muscle opening up to him, squeezing the digit. The artist pushes it in slowly, letting Peter adjust after each inch, groaning at how tight the boy feels around just his finger. Once he’s worked all the way inside, he pauses, twisting and pumping only a few inches in and out, trying to spread the lube as best he can. Peter groans at the feeling of Steve’s knuckles catching on his rim, and he whimpers when another wet finger prods at his entrance.

 

Steve adds the second digit even slower than the first, carefully sliding in long the other, groaning as he watches Peter’s hole stretch. It’s a little mesmerizing and he keeps his eyes on his youngest lover’s rim while he works another hickey onto the boy’s thigh. Peter wiggles in place, feeling Tony’s mechanic’s hands press into his sides, trace his muscle, the divots of his tummy and chest.

 

“T-Tony,” he whimpers, wishing he could kiss the man, too far gone to care how pitiful he might sound. The older pulls away from his collar bones and grins at him, licking his way up Peter’s neck to his lips.

 

“Precious boy,” he coos, granting Peter’s wish. He kisses Peter bruisingly hard, slipping his tongue inside at the same time that Steve adds a third finger, and Peter can only wonder how they manage to be so synced up. He moans at the stretch, how it burns so bad but just right, how he can feel Steve twisting and curling his fingers, _petting_  Peter’s insides, massaging lube into him. Tony nips at his tongue and lips, groaning into the kiss.

 

Steve curls his fingers suddenly and Peter almost screams.

 

The three pads of the artist’s careful fingers brush his prostate, and he cries out, arching his back up against Tony. Steve smirks, repeating the action again and again, slowly stroking and rubbing the boy’s sweet spot. It sends sparks of pleasure up through Peter the ricochet off the cold metal inside him. He can feel the heat bounce off the rod and it feels so strange and new and so, _so good_ , he can’t stop himself from moaning, high and needy.

 

“Please, p-please,” he pants in between kisses. He’s lost for breath and keening as the two men work his body. Finally, finally, Steve must decide he’s stretched enough. The artist removes his fingers and Peter whines pitifully at the loss, Tony swallowing up the sound. And then the inventor is pulling away, too, and Peter doesn’t know what to do. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and looks with too much concern at the two men. Steve just chuckles at his expression, moving up again to kiss him lightly.

 

“It’s ok, sweetheart. Tony’s gonna fuck you now, alright?”

 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s alright. That’s super alright.

 

Peter groans, and he can _hear_  Tony slicking up his cock. Steve’s hand brushes against Peter’s own hard on, ghosting over his length, and it makes Peter’s whole body shiver and squirm. Peter watches Steve pinch the metal sphere as it protrudes from his cock, watches with both his eyes and mouth watering and the artist pulls it out and inch and pushes it back in. He repeats the action, and it takes Peter more than a second to realize that Steve is literally _fucking his cock right now_. Peter keens at the sensation and the knowledge, the cold inside him having heated up, so all he can feel is this crazy strange sensation of being rubbed from the inside and some kind of nerves being nudged, all sending shrill waves of ecstasy through his body.

 

“Ste-eve, I, I-” Peter stutters. His eyes burn and are getting blurry. His thighs are pressed tightly together and he’s got a death grip on the artist’s shoulders, and he squeezes his eyes closed to keep from crying. Steve kisses his jaw, and then his forehead, shushing him.

 

“You’re alright, honey,” he whispers. His voice is low and gravely and he stops pumping the rod, leaving it once again fully seated inside Peter, but the boy still feels himself quaking from the effect. And then Tony is prying his legs apart, holding under his thighs and lifting them. He positions himself between Peter’s legs and the boy groans, Steve kissing him just in time to swallow the high moan he lets out when Tony pushes the tip of his cock suddenly inside.

 

Peter would have choked if he had anything in his mouth other than Steve’s tongue. Tony pauses, rubbing his jutting hip bones and groaning lowly, letting Peter adjust to the intrusion. His cock feels huge already, even just the tip, even though Peter’s felt it constantly for months. He struggles for breath and Steve mercifully breaks the kiss to let him gasp more freely. The artist drops his mouth to Peter’s jaw, nibbling down his neck, teeth scraping over the boy’s collar bone.

 

Tony pushes in a little further, and Peter can feel his heart beating out of his chest. He clings to Steve with what’s almost definitely a painful grip. Tony speaks quiet praise, cautious hands soothing the boy’s quivering thighs. It’s so much already, Peter can hardly breathe.

 

The inventor doesn’t give him a whole lot of time to adjust, but Peter doesn’t care. He welcomes the burn and the stretch, the feeling of being split on Tony’s fat cock. He forces himself to relax under Steve’s mouth, allowing the other to sink in all the way in only a minute. Tony buries himself inside Peter, moaning deeply, and if Peter’s eyes were open, he’d see the thin veil of sweat on the man’s forehead.

 

Tony doesn’t pause very long before he starts pulling out. The thrusts are tentative at first, careful not to overwhelm the boy past what’s intended. Steve caresses his sides through it, letting Peter move under him as Tony’s hips push and pull him up and down the bed. Peter drops his head back, exposing the expanse of his neck, and moans loudly (louder).

 

Steve takes advantage of his open neck to suck on the skin under his chin and in the hollow of his throat. Tony watches the two, eyes heavily lidded, as he starts to move faster. Peter is so tight and hot and wet around him, moaning so prettily, looking perfect with Tony’s and his husband’s marks littering his skin. And it’s been weeks since he’s been inside the boy’s perfect ass, sucking him deeper so well, the man knows he won’t last long at all.

 

He lifts Peter’s thighs a little higher and changes the angle of his hips, and Peter cries out, the thick head of his cock hitting the boy’s prostate dead on. Tony laughs breathlessly and does it again. And again. And again.

 

Peter’s a crying and mewling mess before long at all, his nails scraping red lines down Steve’s shoulders. The man doesn’t mind. His tummy feels heavy and hot, thick bubbles stirring inside him, bolts of electricity firing out through his veins with every thrust Tony makes. Each hit to his prostate, each drag out of Tony’s cock, each new love bite left by Steve’s clever mouth is sending sparks through him. He feels hot and it’s hard to breathe and every inch of his skin is burning. He loves it.

 

“T-Tony, p-please,” he whimpers. He needs to come, but no one is touching him, Steve and Tony’s hands occupied with holding and caressing him. He squirms and clings to Steve tighter. The artist smirks, looking back at his obviously debauched husband. He makes room above Peter and reaches back, grabbing behind Tony’s head and pulling him down into a kiss. Peter’s eyes are just barely opened to see it, and he feels dirty head in his stomach as he watches the husbands kiss above him, one of them inside him.

 

“Babe, ‘m close,” he hears Tony murmur against Steve’s mouth. The other nods into the kiss, Peter watching his fingers thread through Tony’s hair before leaving, returning to the smaller boy. Peter sees only what he’s about to do, because the moment Steve is pinching his nipple, sending that achy, stinging pleasure shooting through him, he’s clamping his eyes closed again. He gasps and arches his back, the feeling running through him, and Tony groans, thrusting harder, faster.

 

Peter feels like he’s been torn apart, but it’s good, everything is hot and it’s filling up his head. He can’t _think_  anymore and he loves it. The whole world is narrowed down to the bodies hovering over him, and he feels _safe_. Safe as Tony starts pounding into him. Safe as he can hear the husbands kissing, his own eyes clamped tightly. Safe as long as he’s with them.

 

Even if it is a punishment. Which Peter has yet to figure out how, but then again, he’s not really thinking about it.

 

He starts to babble a series of ‘please’s, his breathing getting stuck in his lungs and throat, one of his hands still hanging onto Steve’s shoulder, the other grasping at the sheets. He knows his cheeks are stained red and he thinks he might even be drooling a little, his whole body rocking with Tony’s movements. The lewd sound of wet kissing ends, suddenly, and both of Steve’s hands are on his body. The artist pinches his sensitive pink buds again and strokes his aching cock, which, _god_  does it ache and burn, and Peter feels all his muscles tensing at the sensations.

 

Moans slip out of him freely and he knows he clenches down hard around Tony. The man groans loudly, leaning down over Peter and thrusting deep inside him, catching Peter’s lips. He kisses him hard, pounding into the boy only a few more times before he’s moaning low into Peter’s mouth. He pushes himself as far as he can inside the boy, and Peter releases the bed sheets to grab the man’s shoulder. He can feel hot wetness filling up inside him, spilling out around Tony’s cock, shooting deep. It burns and it’s wonderful, makes Peter feel a dirty and wrong with all the possessiveness the sensation fires up inside him.

 

He writhes and whimpers as Tony rides out his orgasm, the man leaving his mouth to bite on the boy's shoulder. He needs to come so bad. He wants to reach down and stroke himself, but he knows he’ll inevitably get his wrists snatched up and held back until the husbands decide to let him, or he climaxes untouched. Which. He can’t say he dislikes, actually. The way they take control. The way they can make his body do that, like some kind of fucked up sex magic.

 

Steve kisses Tony’s shoulder and back and Peter’s forehead, his hands soothing on both of the other males’ burning skin. Tony pulls out slowly, wet squelching making Peter cringe, whimpering at the sensitivity. He looks between the two men with heavily lidded, glossy eyes, swallowing thickly, hoping they’ll let him now. Except, Tony just slips off to the other side of Peter, pressing kisses to his cheeks and nose and forehead, whispering praise, and Peter can see Steve slicking up his own cock.

 

“So good for me, gonna be a good boy for Steve too, right?” Tony husks in his ear. His voice sounds so deep and gravely and the words press all the right buttons in Peter that the boy is helpless to nod enthusiastically. He can be good for Steve, of course he can.

 

“That’s our sweet boy,” Tony smiles, kissing him gently.

 

The tip of Steve’s cock pressing against his hole makes him flinch, but the artist’s hands on his hips hold him still.

 

“Easy, baby, that’s it,” he whispers, and then he starts moving in. There’s a few painful moments as Steve is pushing against his entrance, not breaking through, but then Peter’s rim gives way and allows the man’s thick cock to enter. He’s hot inside Peter, hot and wet and big, and the boy groans at being filled again. His hands scramble for purchase against Tony’s shoulders and arms as Steve moves deeper, feeling that beautiful burning stretch despite just having the other inside him.

 

Eventually they get to the point where Steve’s longer than Tony, and there’s new territory being stretched, and Peter’s throat closes up and he coughs, biting his lip so hard he almost makes himself bleed. It’s too much, so much, he can’t breathe, he can’t take it. He manages gasps and whimpers and feels the tears in his eyes falling slowly.

 

“There you go, sweetheart, just relax. You can take it, honey, you know you can,” Tony soothes, reading his mind, brushing Peter’s hair off his forehead and ravishing his neck in gentle kisses. Peter tries not to whine or mewl, his mouth watering and feeling dry at the same time. Finally, finally, Steve gets all the way in, moaning with a bruising grip on Peter’s waist.

 

He waits, lets Peter learn how to breathe again, keeps himself still until Tony’s hot lips are latched onto the younger boy’s collar bones, sucking a fresh hickey onto the creamy skin. Then he starts to move. Cautious tugs out and careful nudges back in, working his way up to moving further, faster. He sets up a steady rhythm as Peter threads his fingers in Tony’s hair and moans. It feels so good, so fucking good, Steve filling him up so entirely that he thinks he can feel the man’s cock in his throat, feeling the artist pull out almost completely just to do it all again.

 

It’s intoxicating, the way the husbands take him. He knows logically that he’s breathing, but it doesn’t seem like it. Black has turned to stressed out red behind his eyelids, he’s got them shut so tight. His lips are bitten raw and cherry colored, his cheeks flushed dark, the blush running down his chest. His nipples ache as Tony’s fingers brush across them, and his cock _hurts_  with need.

 

The inventor’s fingers find his tip and it makes him yelp, jerking away, which just gives Steve better momentum to yank him back and pound deeper inside him.

 

“You need to come, honey?” Tony asks teasingly as he plays with the little marble poking out from Peter’s slit. Peter keens, opening his watery doe eyes to see Tony giving him something between a fond smile and a devilish smirk. He nods, biting his lip again. Tony offers him a little sympathy frown and an ‘aw, poor baby’, kissing his forehead. His fingers ghost around Peter’s tip and down his shaft, giving him a few painfully loose, painfully slow strokes before he takes his hand away.

 

“Not yet, baby. This is part of your punishment, remember?” He says with barely concealed amusement. Peter groans pitifully, fresh tears leaving his eyes as Steve starts nailing his prostate. It’s the sensation all over again, but more now that he’s sensitive and wanting. Hot pleasure bursts through him, pulsing in his veins. His muscles tense and relax at every thrust, each snap of Steve’s hips jerking him up and down the bed.

 

Peter whines, high and desperate, and Steve gives him a breathy grin, little blonde hairs damp with sweat by his temples. The man rolls his hips into the boy slowly, making the entire top few inches of his painfully(wonderfully) long cock grind against Peter’s sweet spot. The younger squirms uncontrollably at that, his back arching in time with Steve’s movements.

 

Peter wants to beg for release, but his voice isn’t working. All he can do is lay there and spread his thighs wider to accommodate for the man, giving Steve room to press as deep into him as he can, massaging the boy’s prostate with his cock. Tony’s hands rub Peter’s tummy and chest, caress his face, trace muscles as he leaves kisses. He carefully avoids Peter’s cock, which makes the boy want to scream. Maybe he does. He’s not sure.

 

All he really knows is that Steve sets him on fire, tearing him apart with his cock, while Tony’s mouth and careful fingers burn his skin with touches somehow both tender and rough. A particularly forceful thrust of Steve’s has Peter tightening his grip in Tony’s hair, which makes the inventor groan. He licks the love bites on Peter’s neck and chest, lapping at marked up milky skin with his tongue, leaving a layer of saliva that feels some kind of stinging coldness as the air in the room meets it.

 

Peter gasps and wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, begging the man the only way he knows how for _more, please more_. Steve understands and obliges him. Of course he does, perfect bastard.

 

He moves faster, a little harder, still hitting Peter’s prostate, dragging the boy’s hips to meet his thrusts. Peter’s pretty sure he’s scratching Tony’s neck and shoulders with the hand that isn’t gripping his beautiful dark hair a little too tight, but neither of them mind. Neither of them care.

 

Peter cries out with each thrust, now, as Steve’s breathing gets faster and his rhythm starts to falter. The snapping of his hips grows sloppy and he groans low, falling over Peter and Tony, kissing Tony messily, the sounds of wet saliva and lube filling the room. When his thrusts start to stutter and Peter knows the man must be getting close, he clenches down the best he can, his eyes rolling back in his head at the feeling of making himself impossibly tighter. Steve moans and leaves Tony’s mouth for Peter’s, pushing his tongue past the boy’s lips before they’re even connected.

 

Tony’s hands are trapped between the two bodies, still hot on Peter’s skin, and he moans into the kiss. Steve’s tongue slides along his and the man still tastes like sugar.

 

And then Steve lets out a deep, low breath, breaking the kiss and letting his mouth fall to leave a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Peter’s shoulder. He thrusts himself in as far as he can, and Peter swears he can feel the man’s cock pushing past his stomach and his insides, making a home for itself deep inside the boy’s body. He feels the burning hot come filling him up, pooling inside him, some escaping out of his hole. He takes all he can with Tony’s load still inside him, moaning at the feeling of being so incredibly _wet_  inside.

 

Steve pants into the boy’s shoulder until his spine relaxes and his muscles stop clenching. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of sex and Tony and himself and _Peter_  that are all staining the boy’s skin, before he pulls out slowly. Peter grimaces at the sensation, whimpering when the man’s tip catches on his rim.

 

For a moment, they don’t move, and Peter hopes maybe they’re just calming down before they finally let him come.

 

He’s wrong.

 

Suddenly both men are pulling away from him, and Tony’s taking pillows out from the head of the bed, Steve lifting Peter’s hips so his husband can slide the pillows under the boy, into the small of his back, just before the curve of his ass begins. The effect has Peter’s hips angled and raised so his hole is facing a little more upwards and exposed with Steve still sitting between his thighs, keeping his legs spread. Peter looks at them quizzically, confused as Tony’s presence leaves the bed.

 

“S-Steve, w-what-” he can barely manage to mumble, his voice still not working, as most of his brain function is still focused on how painfully he needs to come. The man hushes him, rubbing his belly, slipping a finger into Peter’s hole. It feels. Weird. Like he can feel the come inside him slipping deeper, maybe, with gravity pulling it down, but his hips angles up. He squirms, feeling sensitive with something inside him again, but then Tony is back and he kisses Peter so gently that the boy doesn’t notice the man handing something to his husband.

 

“This is the last part of your punishment, baby, and then we’ll be done. Alright?” Tony prompts, and Peter takes a second to even register that they’re waiting for a reply. And really, he’s so far gone right now, it’s whatever they want. Anything they want. As long as Peter gets to come in the end.

 

So he nods eagerly, panting with his lips parted before biting the bottom one when Tony kisses his forehead.

 

“Perfect boy, doing so well, been so good for us,” he whispers. Peter preens. He loves the praise, lives for it. Makes him feel so good, so warm and happy and safe, nothing like the nervous wreck and general fuck-up he most often feels like.

 

Steve’s finger moves out, and Peter is really curious about what’s going on, but then there’s something else pushing inside him. It’s smooth, completely smooth, though he’s not entirely sure what shape it is, or what _it_  is at all, and he’s honestly pretty confused until it nudges his prostate and he moans, high and breathy.

 

“That your sweet spot, honey?” Steve asks. His voice sounds good. Peter might have tried to reply if Steve didn’t press —whatever it is— to the precious bundle of nerves again, making him whimper at how good but sensitive it feels. The two husbands smile, Tony peppering kisses to his face, Steve little pecks to his thighs, whispering little phrases of encouragement and endearment.

  
And then, _holy shit_.

 

 _Holy fucking shit_.

 

Peter’s entire body lurches and he tries to convulse, almost rolls away, but Tony has a hand on his chest and his side, and Steve has a hand on his hip, and they hold him still. Movement restricted so there’s nowhere for him to go, Peter instinctively tries to push or pull away, his voice transformed to nothing but a long, broken sound between a moan and a whine, but Tony gathers his wrists up and pins them above his head, keeping his other hand on the boy’s chest.

 

He starts shaking violently and would have been thrashing, but with the men holding him down, it’s nothing more than pitiful squirming and he cries out.

 

It fucking _vibrates_.

 

Whatever the hell Steve has inside him, pressed firmly against his prostate, fucking _vibrates_.

 

Peter’s nearly screaming, gasping for breath, his stomach cramping and his hole clenching down hard, all to absolutely no avail. He thinks he would have come untouched on the spot, the moment it started, but he’s now realizing that he _can’t_. The sounding rod. It’s still in, and he can’t come, even untouched, and where before it was weird and he hurt with need, now it’s absolute _torture_.

 

Peter can’t breathe at all, and it takes him all of fifteen seconds to start sobbing. The husbands kiss him, Tony on his neck and face, Steve on his thighs and tummy, as he tries to wiggle free, yanking at his arms. It’s no use, of course, because they hold him firm and he feels like his whole body is buzzing.

 

It’s a crazy kind of pleasure, something he’s never felt before. It’s shooting through him, but instead of pulses and jolts, it’s one constant, overwhelming, never ending wave, like a completely consistent earthquake raging through him, setting him on fire. He thinks he might pass out. Actually, the thinks he does, a couple times, if only for a few seconds. Because he’s never felt anything so devastatingly good, so mind-shattering. His body is completely rigid, his back arched, and he’s trembling violently, but nothing comes of it, because he still can’t come.

 

All he can do is sob and take it. So he does. Heavy sobs wrecking their way out of him, and when they’re not, there’s unashamed, uncontrollable, needy feminine moaning escaping his mouth. The tears feel hot, a steady stream gushing from his eyes, but he barely notices them. He feels like he’s going to explode, like he’s actually going to explode for real.

 

He doesn’t even notice that by some miracle he’s gained control of his vocal cords when his voice is begging in the most broken, desperate way.

 

“Hnngg, p-plea-ease, I-ah, plea-ease, S-Ste-eve, T-Tony-y, I-I, a-ah-!” His voice cracks and another sob wrenches it’s way out of him, but all the husbands do is hush him and kiss his body. Peter’s pretty sure the vibrations actually intensify, that Steve presses the thing (vibrator? vibrator) harder against his prostate, but he’s starting to lose control of his senses.

 

All he feels is heat and this coursing, violent, unbearable pleasure wrecking its way through him in a constant flow, burning, making him shake and squirm and cry, begging for release with his sobs and keening.

 

It goes on for so long, too long. Peter thought he was going to lose his mind right from the start, but he can’t even keep track of how long it lasts. How long Steve keeps the vibrations against his sweet spot until he’s so wrecked, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to move again. But finally, after so long, Tony is whispering in his ear, petting his hair.

 

“What do you think, angel. Did you learn your lesson about overworking?”

 

Peter tries to nod, he tries so hard but there’s less than a fraction of his mind that’s even remotely coherent.

 

“Are you gonna be nicer to yourself? You gonna accept help when you need it? Did you learn to respect your own limits, baby? Gonna be a good boy?” Tony continues. Peter tries to nod again, that minuscule part of his brain with logic praying that Tony can tell. He can, apparently.

 

“Words, sweet pea.” He says, and if Peter was any more put together he’d hear how thick the man lathers the teasing in his voice, but as is, all Peter can do is sob again.

 

“Y-y-ye-es!” He cries, and Tony smiles against his cheek. He kisses his forehead softly, and then his hand is blazing a fiery trail down Peter’s chest and belly.

 

“Perfect boy, that’s it,” he whispers, and then his hand is on Peter’s cock and the touch _burns_  so bad that the boy jerks away from him. Steve pulls the vibrator away from his prostate, which feels like relief even though it doesn’t stop sending waves through him. Tony hushes him, still pinning his wrists, Steve still holding him still, and rests his fingers for a moment on Peter’s tip. Just to let the boy get used to the touch. And then slowly, so, so goddamn slowly, he grabs the sphere of the rod, pulling it out gently. When it’s out all the way and Peter sobs in relief, Steve presses the vibrator back to his sweet spot. Hard.

 

Peter screams and he’s coming in literal seconds. His body goes completely rigid, his back arching dangerously as he cries out. It feels like real actual liquid fire goes raging through him, filling up all his veins and every muscle and bone in his body. He can feel it, the painfully heavy pressure that was pooling so intensely in his belly exploding. Feels it, almost more pain than pleasure, rushing through him, in his tummy and his chest, though his thighs. Hot ivory come is finally released from his poor, strained cock, and the force and angle make it reach up to his collar bones, painting creamy stripes up his pretty love-bite littered skin. His eyes roll back in his head and he’s not sure exactly when his cry breaks into a silent scream, but it does, because he’s conscious enough to hear his voice coming back in broken moans.

 

Steve milks his orgasm from him, keeping the vibrations up, pressed against his prostate until he stops coming and starts whimpering in over-sensitivity. It’s only then that the toy is turned off and slowly, carefully removed.

 

Peter isn’t sure when Tony let go of his wrists, if he wrapped his arms around the man right away or if Tony started hugging him first, but when he wakes up (he passed out. huh.) he’s clinging to the man’s shoulders, arms tight around his neck. Tony’s nuzzling into his temple, kissing his jaw, his cheeks, whispering to him. Steve is there, too, beside them. The pillows are gone (when did they go away?) and the artist is laying next to them on Peter’s other side, fingers carding through his hair, hand stroking his belly soothingly.

 

Peter takes a second to realize he’s still crying, little sobs still heaving out of his chest. He’s trembling uncontrollably, too. He knows that it’s probably not tight at all, considering how completely weak and boneless he feels, but he’s holding onto Tony as tight as he can. Steve and Tony kiss him gently but almost frantically, comforting him with a pace and intensity that’s laced with concern and affection.

 

“Did so good, baby, so, so good for us, took it all so well, beautiful boy, you’re so perfect,” Steve coos, kissing his forehead, moving back and kissing his arms, the backs of his hands where they’re clinging to Tony.

 

“Were so brave, took it so well for us, sweet angel, you did so good, you’re so good,” Tony whispers, pulling away enough so he and Steve can lavish the boy’s face with kisses. The praises and endearments continue, soft and oozing conviction, for a long time. Peter doesn’t keep track, just knows they’re still giving him kisses and hushed sweet encouragement until he stops sobbing, until he’s barely shaking. Still trembling a little, he thinks, and he can feel a few stray tears slipping out of his eyes, but most of it is over.

 

“Ok, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up, ok?” Steve offers quietly. Peter can’t really nod or reply, he’s almost unconscious at this point, but he hopes his intended hum of agreement that actually comes out as a sigh still counts. Steve smiles and kisses his temple, so he thinks it does.

 

The men start to pull away a little, and Peter whimpers, trying to chase after Tony’s shoulders that he still clings to, but finding himself too weak to follow. Which makes a few fresh tears fall from his eyes in distress. At the sight, both husbands rush back to him with little reassurances, kissing his cheeks.

 

“It’s ok, baby, you’re alright. We aren’t going anywhere, ok? We’ve got you,” Tony whispers, and this time he wraps an arm around Peter’s back so he can keep the boy flush to him as the couple pull up. Steve helps the two of them stay upright until Tony can slip his hands under Peter’s thighs, lifting him off the bed. The boy tries to wrap his legs around the man’s waist, but barely manages to get his ankles hooked and secured before his thighs can’t keep it up anymore.

 

Steve turns the shower on, something about needing a shower instead of a bath, and he talks to Tony about holding Peter up, but the boy dozes as they speak. Their voices are soft, low, kind of rumbly, and Peter can feel Tony’s in his own chest when the man talks. He likes it. Likes their voices. Likes to hear them, even if he doesn’t know what they’re saying.

 

Peter wakes up again when there’s warm water hitting his back and he’s being lowered down. Tony moves with him, though, keeping an arm around the boy’s waist while Steve does the same, the two of them holding Peter firmly to each other, making a tight sandwich of the boy to keep him standing. Peter doesn’t take his arms away from Tony’s shoulders, but he leans his head back against Steve’s firm chest. The water is warm, and the two men surrounding him are even warmer, and there are soft hands and a soft cloth washing away the come and sweat and lube from his body.

 

He slips in and out of consciousness for the shower. Asleep when Tony gently massages shampoo into his scalp, taming his wild sex hair. Awake when Steve drops to his knees behind the boy, slipping one finger and his tongue inside Peter’s hole, carefully removing the come and lube of his and his husband’s orgasms from the younger’s heat. Asleep when Tony kisses Steve softly, up and down his jaw and neck, the two pulling closer to each other, tighter around the boy between them. Awake when the warm water is turned off and suddenly the cold air of the bathroom, if steamy from the shower, is cooling the sheet of water on his skin.

 

He shivers almost immediately, making the two men chuckle and kiss the top of his head. Steve walks Peter, hands under his arms, out of the shower, to where Tony quickly wraps the boy in a fluffy towel. The artist dries himself as his husband pats away all the water off the boy, then lifts the smaller into his arms, a burrito in the towel, cradling him bridal style while Tony dries himself. The other man only manages to stand a foot away from where Steve is holding Peter without the boy whimpering at the distance, despite being barely coherent at best.

 

When Tony leaves the bathroom to fetch them some clothes, Peter almost starts crying by the time he gets three feet away. So Steve follows Tony into the bedroom while the man collects something for them to wear. The husbands wonder if Peter, in his state, notices the little pile of clothes in the closet that are his. Especially when Tony sifts through it to grab him some boxers.

 

They guess not. He doesn’t say anything about it.

 

Steve sits Peter on the bed, keeping his arms wrapped around the boy as the kid is adamant about being close to them. When usually he just lightly holds them back, too dazed to really do much at all, now, regardless of his fragile consciousness, he clings tightly to them. It ignites something possessive in both men, that they can break down so many layers of walls and defenses until Peter shamelessly, desperately needs them with such intensity.

 

They’ll talk about it later.

 

Now, though, Tony helps Peter into his boxers while Steve slips on some sweatpants, before pulling on a pair of underwear himself. The boy sways a little as he sits, and doesn’t really register the way the husbands coo at him. He’s awake to hear Steve whisper softly against his damp hair.

 

“You sleepy, baby?” He thinks he might nod. He’s not sure.

 

He’s asleep when Tony strips the messy sheets of the bed, spots of drying come and lube on them, and tosses them in the hamper. He’s awake when Steve lays him gently on clean sheets, and he refuses to let go of the man until he lays down with Peter. It’s only then that he smiles, eyes already closed, nuzzling into the refreshing coolness of the pillow and the pleasant warmth of the body in front of him.

 

Another body joins a moment later, behind him, and then blankets are being pulled up over them. It smells nice, like the couple’s body wash and dryer sheets and vaguely of Tony’s cologne. It’s warm and he’s all swallowed up in the good feelings and the good smells, someone’s hand rubbing his back, someone’s palm rubbing his tummy, fingers carding through his hair. Soft, sweet whispers of praise he isn’t quite coherent enough to understand being cooed into the small space the three share.

 

It all feels. Secure. Safe, and good, and what would be alarmingly like home if Peter had any of his logical mind left. As it is, he just snuggles further against Steve and Tony, one of his hands finding Tony’s on his belly, the other pressed flat against Steve’s chest. He smiles to himself a little and thinks, if he’s really being honest, he kind of wants to stay right here, in this place, with these two, in this _moment_ , forever.

 

Steve and Tony want him to stay here, with them, too.

 

Something for them to consider, they suppose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how many ways I can end chapters with vague references to them talking about their relationship before it becomes obvious that they won't do it until the plotty fic. Hnnnnnggg im sorry. 
> 
> About some of the elements in this chapter: Really this whole series is basically just discussed but not formally negotiated kinks + dom/sub relationships. Like they talk about it, but not in the technical way you would expect from a more intense dom/sub set up. They’re all just really soft, can you tell?
> 
> Thanks for reading all my shit ton of notes and 11k of filth, babes. You're all lovely people, much appreciated, hope you enjoyed it <3 <3 <3


	9. Sweet Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony knew about Peter’s crush on them long before that first night. They can’t believe he had no idea they felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful humans!!!
> 
> It has been… a hot minute, that’s for sure. I’m sorry I haven’t updates in a whole ass month, I got a little busy and a little swept up with other fics and such. Hope you haven’t forgotten about this !! (bc tbh even with terribly long breaks in between updates, I’ll be writing chapters for this until I die, probably) This is mega short compared to other chapters and more like me re-familiarizing myself with this series, (thanks to hoveringcat9 for the idea/concept/prompt/whatever tf we're calling these) but I’m hopefully going to add another longer chapter later on this weekend, too !!
> 
> That said, I hope you like it <3

Did they notice him at first because of something as trivial and inconsiderate as his appearance? 

 

Yes. They’re both mature enough to admit that. 

 

But, _come on_ , when a boy who looks like a literal, actual, genuine angel just drops out of the sky like that, anybody would notice him. Notice him, get a little star-struck, stare a bit longer than what’s necessarily socially comfortable— the works. 

 

Tony and Steve were having their house built in a nice neighborhood just a little over a mile, maybe two, away from this apartment complex. The project was just starting to get up and running, and was expected to last long enough to be worth renting an apartment. It’s not like they were tight on funds, and they certainly weren’t going to stay in their old apartment. It was nice, certainly, but the neighbors were half the reason they decided to move (the majority being that having a real house together was kind of a landmark in their relationship). 

 

So they were renting. It was a cheap building with a lot of college students and elderly middle class couples, but it was pretty high quality for the price, and it was the closest they could find the their lot. They wanted to be as near to their work-in-progress as possible in case of, well, anything. Their style of home isn’t extravagant or overly custom; personalized, of course, but relatively plain and relatively simple is kind of their fashion. 

 

So small, cheap apartment for a couple weeks? Works just fine. 

 

They’d just finished the basics of unpacking, the more elaborate details still stored up in boxes and waiting to fill up their own home, setting up their temporary living space to a satisfactory level of ‘ours’ without getting too attached. Tony was holding Steve’s hand in both of his, working out the cramp in the artist’s palm, when they stepped off of the staircase (is the elevator often broken, they wondered?) and into the lobby. 

 

It was there, on recently polished hardwood floors, in the wide entrance with full wall windows streaming in afternoon light, that they met him. 

 

_Peter_. 

 

They didn’t know his name yet. They just saw an astonishingly small boy with a sweater and a button up, the bottoms of some worn skinny jeans rolled up and still pooling at his ankles, an absolute _mop_  of messy, chocolate brown hair on his head and bright, caramel colored eyes. 

 

He was fucking _beautiful_. 

 

Steve and Tony both nearly tripped over their own feet when they saw him, freezing up in the lobby. No one seemed to notice, the boy skipping his way in and calling out a goodbye to someone behind him. His backpack bounced on his shoulders and his voice sounded so _pretty_ , soft and pure and not very low at all, a testimony to his youth. 

 

The Stark-Rogers couple had been the Stark-hyphen-Rogers couple for years by this point. Best friends for even longer, they were the center of each other’s universes (and despite being successful and even formidable in their reputations and careers, some might even venture to say codependent). Most everything in the history of them, individually and as a pair, had been unconventional. It’s only natural that their sexual and sometimes even romantic endeavors were as well. 

 

They’d opened up their relationship a few times. To their mutual zero-bullshit friend, Natasha, to a past coworker and long-time friend Phil, and even to a few one night stands they’ve met at clubs. So long as both husbands (and boyfriends, previously) were on board, wanted it, allowing people to make their duo a trio wasn’t unusual. 

 

And this kid? This boy who made them question their morals by seeming so young and innocent and beautiful and still making their pants uncomfortably tight within the first thirty seconds of meeting? 

 

_God_ , did they want him. They wanted him _bad_. 

 

It only got worse when they started talking to him. 

  
Because as it turned out, Peter is _sweet_. He’s sweet and kind and oh-so-considerate. Smart as a whip, clever, _funny_. He’s a package. An absolute sweetheart, he’s so nervous and modest and wholesome and precious, they wanted to wrap him up tight. Wrap him up and shower him in love and not ever let him go. 

 

They weren’t saying that to him, of course. Weren’t even implying it, though they’d later be astonished to find out he didn’t catch a hint. Not even an inkling. 

 

Not even after the husbands made a habit to go for jogs and walks when Peter was leaving or arriving home from shifts or classes, just so they could bump into him and say hello. Not even when they started bringing him dinner, “leftovers” even though they specifically made enough for three or four. Not even when they found any and every excuse to talk to him, clap him on the shoulder or ruffle his (very, very soft) hair.

 

Somehow, Peter never picked up on it. 

 

Which was astonishing and probably for the best. And also mildly concerning. Because really, the kid seemed way too smart to genuinely be _that_  oblivious, so either he thought terribly low of himself, or there was a criminally small amount of people expressing interest in him (so small that he couldn’t recognize when it was happening).

 

Both, they later learned. Both and then some. 

 

Yet despite Peter’s naivety, the husbands didn’t stop fawning over him at every opportunity. In fact, the desire to find all excuses to casually touch and encounter him, to dote on him, only grew when they realized that his blushing, precious and timid demeanor was not just because of his naturally shy personality, but because the kid _liked_  them. 

 

The sweet boy had a _crush_  on them. 

 

And the Stark-Rogers couple would be damned if they didn’t take full advantage of that. They obviously didn’t talk to the boy about it directly, aside from a few of Tony’s innuendos that flew right over the kid’s head. But it was hard not to let the hands on his shoulders or the small of his back linger, hard not to make eye contact for too long. Hard not to give him painfully flirtatious smirks and pay compliments and encouragement, hard not to drop off stews and salads and enchiladas multiple times a week when the boy’s cheeks would turn pink and he’d stutter so adorably and look at them with such adoration, hang on to every word they said. 

 

It was hard not to indulge the boy when they were indulging themselves, too. 

 

So they did. Indulge, that is. 

 

They brought him still-warm breadsticks and home-made soup straight to his door, and caught him in the hallways to have ten minute conversations and pretend to be surprised that they stood there talking for so long when really they were savoring every second. 

 

Their house was taking longer and longer than expected to build. Delays, weather, misplacement of supplies, short-handedness. Hours started to add up to days that added up to weeks, and there was an accident that took out an entire wall, and the cost was even starting to increase slightly but to be completely honest— they really didn’t care. When they told the heads of the construction crews that it was completely alright and for them not to worry about the damages; they meant it. 

 

Not that either Steve nor Tony are particularly pretentious assholes when it comes to those things anyways. But the longer their house was incomplete, the longer they lived in the complex, and they were both confident enough in their own pride to admit that living a few meters away from Peter Parker was very, very worth it. 

 

It wasn’t unusual for Steve or Tony to slip the boy’s name, an image of him in their bed, into a their time together. Pretty normal, actually, for one to whisper a dirty description of how the kid might look between them when they had their hands on each other. 

 

They didn’t feel guilty about it. No more so than a teenage boy coming to a climax while imagining his crush, the one from his biology class to sits two seats across. There was no harm in pining after Peter, especially when they knew he was pining after them, too. 

 

While hopeful, neither husband really expected anything to come of it. The poor boy was so nervous and shy, they doubted he’d be able to act on his feelings unprompted. But they couldn’t help but feel like they, as overbearing as they can get, needed him to initiate something (if there was going to be anything at all) before they would know if he was actually comfortable or just going along with it. 

 

It was only after returning from an impromptu pasta run so early in the morning that the only people awake _should_  be people who haven’t yet gone to sleep, and found Peter, the precious kid, locked out of his apartment, and invited him into theirs that things really started to move forward. That one morning taught them heaps and loads about the college student, like (what was, at the time, most importantly) how he almost definitely would not ever make the first move but definitely, definitely wanted something (though the sweet thing didn't know _what_ ). 

 

Which is how they knew, after inviting him to dinner and having the best date they’ve ever had with a third party involved, that they had to ask him inside. That was how they knew that they needed to ask to kiss him before he could find some way to scare himself out of the situation. That was how they knew, when the angel was so nervous about being with them (with _anyone_ ) that had a panic attack, that he was perfect for them. Despite feeling their hearts break and stomachs tie into knots at seeing the(ir) poor boy in such distress, the implications of the situation, what that night revealed to them about Peter, was a relief. 

 

Steve and Tony have always been… overwhelming. Controlling. Self-assured and overpoweringly giving, in a dominant kind of way. And while that’s not exactly the most compatible combination for the both of them— they made it work and they loved each other to the moon and back regardless. Even if it was their every bone and fiber's forceful instinct to _fawn_  and take the lead, while neither being especially predisposed to being fawned over or led, they were always able to make it work and never once let it cause trouble between them. 

 

Peter, though? 

 

Peter _needs_  the fawning. He needs the option of being led, of giving himself up to be controlled (though, _guided_  really is the more accurate and favorable term), or he can’t relax enough to enjoy intimacy. 

 

Steve and Tony are both so overwhelming. 

 

Peter _has_  to be overwhelmed.    
  


They fit together like puzzle pieces. 

 

And once they earned his trust (which was, honestly, easier and more difficult than expected. He managed to trust them enough to sleep with them, but it’s taken a lot of time and work to get him to trust them more emotionally. Even now, it’s a work in progress)? He was _perfect_. He _is_  perfect. Peter is everything wonderful and precious and it didn’t take either husband long to start to want him in a different kind of way. 

 

Not the initial 'light and frothy conversations' and 'blessed, stolen flirtations' kind of way. And not in the 'fuck him into the mattress' kind of way either. Not even the ‘holy shit this kid is almost as smart and sometimes smarter than two men ten years older and more experienced than him’ kind of way.

 

More like the 'falling asleep and waking up with this small boy between them feels dangerously close to as _good_  and _r_ _ight_  as falling asleep and waking up with each other' kind of way. 

 

That was scary to them both for about a week, and then Peter slid across their kitchen tiles in his bare socks and hip-checked Tony, and called Steve in the middle of the day to tell him about the dog he just saw and how it’s hair looked just like the artist’s, and then they decided that yeah. Ok. 

 

There are worse people they could have lost another third of their hearts to. 

 

It was uncharted territory that they really had yet to actually, truthfully, wholly talk about— but. 

 

Looking down at the gorgeous, kind boy, asleep in their bed between them (on top of them, really), all soft and smooth and sweet (and not opposed at all to the concept of him long after the youthful plush to his cheeks and hyper pep in his step has left him); they think, yeah. 

 

Giving out another piece of their love, offering it to Peter, receiving pieces of his in return? 

 

That doesn’t sound bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading babes <3 Hope you can forgive me for my absence ;)
> 
> *I did also make some /extremely minor/ changes to the last chapter, just an fyi*


	10. It Takes Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter stumbles upon one of Steve's sketches. Smut ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This is… sin. Straight up sin. Sorry? There’s a lot that goes down in here, pls read the notes/warnings for stuff you might not be into, just in case!
> 
> Updating regularly? Never heard of it.  
> Properly editing chapters before posting them? Sounds fake. 
> 
> Sorry for my lack of updates, my muse is chaotic and only comes to me in seven minute segments at approximately 2am every few days. I know that I often say that chapters feel weird to me and I'll probably go back to edit them, but this one really seems off so I'm sorry if it's wack to read, I'll try to figure out how to fix it !!
> 
> That said, thanks so much for reading, I hope you like this 10k of filthy smut ;)
> 
> notes/warnings: double penetration (yes, I finally wrote it), coming untouched (I know, I know, unrealistic but I can’t seem to stop myself), stomach bulge (hope that doesn’t freak anyone out!), kind of intense subspace

Steve is an artist.

 

Though he typically sticks to graphite and charcoal pencils, he can make pretty much anything using pretty much anything. Everything from doodled sketches on small sticky notes to hyper-realistic paintings on canvases taller than Peter. He’s even made a few sculptures, though most of them were more joking pieces. He made one wire creation years ago, a little model of Pepper Potts scolding Tony, that sits on Ms. Potts’ desk at Stark Industries— which Peter’s seen a few times on his rare visits to the SI tower.

 

There are sketchbooks all over the house, on end tables by the couches, on the coffee table, one on the counter in the kitchen, scattered over a desk in the sun room. They’re everywhere. And it’s ten times worse at Steve’s studio, which Peter’s seen a couple times.

 

If the small, mini studio in their house looks like a canvas and charcoal wind storm went through it, the building he has a ways away in the city was hit by a tornado.

 

It’s not like he’s the only one, though. Tony’s blueprint sketches and notes are scattered throughout their home as well. His tablet and laptop will pop up in any room, accompanied by small screwdrivers and wrenches and a whole assortment of circuit boards. Little inventions and side projects can be found anywhere.

 

His “office” (Steve thinks it’s a workshop— Peter sees it more as a lab) is filled with robot parts and tools, pieces of tech and machinery that the man is taking apart or putting back together or creating anew. Wires and screws and small plastic plants cover his desk (and some of the floor).

 

It’s a mess. But an organized mess, if watching the two move through their respective areas has taught Peter anything. It _looks_  chaotic (and, really, it is) but they understand it, and Peter supposes that’s all that matters.

 

And because evidence of the husbands’ passions covers every surface feasibly possible, Peter often finds himself flipping casually through Steve’s sketchbooks and skimming over Tony’s notes.

 

Neither man minds. In reality, they often encourage the younger to indulge his curiosity. Peter supposes the fact that he physically can’t keep his praise and compliments quiet when he sees their skill probably plays into how willing they are to let him snoop around— but he likes it anyways.

 

He enjoys keeping up to speed with what the couple are working on, where their interests are developing and changing and remaining the same. Where they’ve branched out and what they keep coming back to.

 

For Tony, he’s recently taken a little more interest in biotech applications (which Peter does not feel smug about at all, nope, not one bit) but is always working on another AI bot.

 

For Steve, he’s started working more with egg and tempera paints on small slabs of primed wood in his studio, but every sketchbook he owns is brimming with pencil drawings of Tony. And, as of late, Peter as well.

 

The boy is laying on the living room floor, a spot in the carpet that’s really starting to look like him from how often he sprawls out there, flipping through the pages of a drawing pad of Steve’s. There are a lot of doodles of inanimate objects in their kitchen, the houses across the street. Some birds and one of the city from the top floor of Stark Tower, which Peter barely recognized but remembered from one of his very few stunning visits to the top floor.

 

And, of course, the notebook is positively _overflowing_  with sketches of Tony, and many of Peter.

 

Tony at his desk, on the couch, passed out in bed. Standing over the stove, in the middle of a workout, in front of a long table in a board meeting. Angles of his face, with Steve’s hand on his chest or cheek.

 

Peter laying on the floor, the same place he is right now. Sitting on the counter top where he always sits, doing homework at the dining table, on his roller blades. Laying across Steve’s legs, looking blissed out with one of Steve’s fingers in his mouth.

 

Tony and Peter at the kitchen table playing 'Sorry', Tony obviously winning. Peter and Tony at the pier, in thick jackets, Tony holding onto Peter’s hand so the younger can lean out off the edge and over the frigid late winter water. A shirtless Tony pinning a nude Peter to the bed, caging him down, Tony’s thigh blocking Peter’s obviously naked waist out of the sketch.

 

Some of the drawings even have Steve himself in them, the three of them at a restaurant table or holding hands, lips on stomachs and necks, fingers on chests, six legs tangled together among sheets.

 

Sometimes the artwork is domestic, platonic and even cute, if Peter would venture to say so. And sometimes there’s no other word to describe it but _erotic_. Like the sketch of Peter looking up at Steve, kneeling in front of him with Steve’s cock in front of his face. Or the drawing that’s clearly Tony despite his face hidden as he apparently delves into Peter’s ass.

 

Like the drawing Peter happens upon that makes him choke on his own spit and sit up with a coughing fit.

 

He’s flushed red and definitely not just because he’s having breathing problems, clearing his throat and taking a few deep breaths.

 

“Pete? You alright?” Steve asks from where he’s sitting on the couch, a different sketch pad and pen in his hands. Tony looks at the younger boy quizzically from his spot next to his husband, his laptop and work momentarily forgotten.

 

“Y-yeah, yeah, I’m good. Fine.” Peter hurries to cover up, offering them a quick, hopefully reassuring smile. The flashed grin has the opposite of the intended effect, the couple only more interested in Peter.

 

Something like understanding dawns on Steve, a small, satisfied smirk finding its way onto his face. He shifts in his spot and fixes Peter with his signature grin and a raised eyebrow.

 

“Which one are you looking at?” He asks lightly. Peter repositions himself so he’s sitting, facing them and holding the drawing pad to himself.

 

“Um, just, uh-” he tries to decide whether to tell them or not, but after a few seconds it becomes clear that he won’t have to make that choice. Tony, with a half smile and lip biting somewhere between devious and curious, puts his laptop on the coffee table and beckons Peter over with grabby hands and a “come ‘ere”.

 

Peter swallows the lump in his throat and stands up on wobbly legs, walking over to them cautiously, bottom lip caught under his teeth.

 

He slowly hands off the sketchbook into Tony’s hands. As he does, Steve turns to set his drawing pad on the table beside them. The second Tony sees the art he chuckles to himself, speaking to Steve when he says:

 

“Oh, it’s the one where we fuck him together.”

 

Peter barely stops himself from choking on air again at the casual tone in Tony’s voice. He clears his throat and avoids looking at the couple, who both grin knowingly and turn to Peter with little laughs.

 

The drawing is in regular pencil with a little bit of orange tossed in. It’s a somewhat messy, sketchy style, and despite the crude phrasing, Tony’s described it exactly. It’s a mostly behind but slightly to the side and upward angle of Steve and Tony’s backs, the two of them at each others sides with their bodies contorted, looming over Peter’s small frame. There’s no indication of where they are other than a few lines and shading around them that probably means bed sheets, and both men are… well.

 

Both of them are inside Peter, at the same time.

 

In the picture, Peter’s mouth is open and his face is a little scrunched up and Steve is pinning both of his wrists above his head while Tony’s hands rest on his hips. He wonders if that’s what he actually looks like, to them, with them. Small and kind of fragile; if that’s the face he actually makes when they’re fucking him.

 

He tries not to think about it, because he’s already gone pink enough in his cheeks. Something Steve, apparently, finds amusement in pointing out.

 

“You’re blushing pretty hard there, Petey,” the artist muses, reaching out. He grabs Peter by the bottom of his shirt and tugs the boy in until the younger’s knees hit the couch and he’s leaning in between Steve’s spread legs. Once the sputtering college student is close, Tony takes one of the boy’s hands and rubs his thumb soothingly over Peter’s palm, Steve‘s hand resting absently on the lithe waist in front of him.

 

Peter tries to shrug off the comment but he can’t seem to make his brain function. The drawing has his head short-circuiting, the idea, just the _concept_  of taking both men at the same time throwing Peter for a massive loop. God, the _detail_  in the artwork, how it was like hyper realism but all sketched over.

 

“What do you think of it?” Steve prompts, saving the small boy from having to respond to his observation. Peter wets his lips a little nervously but jumps on the opportunity to ramble his awkwardness away.

 

“It’s good, yeah, it’s really good, great actually- um, really great-” he stumbles through the words before Tony cuts him off.

 

“The art, or…?” he trails off. Peter gets the hint a moment later, blushing and fidgeting all over again.

 

“Yeah, yeah, th-the art. The art. The art is really good, Steve you’re amazing at this stuff. Um, I’m not, uh, th-the, the idea, I guess, um-” Peter laughs nervously at himself, averting his eyes and trying not to go even redder.

 

“Think you could handle it? Theoretically,” Tony begins and pauses, and Peter’s grateful for the little out the man offers him, “of course, theoretically, do you think you could take it?”

 

Peter lolls his head from side to side and rolls from his heels to his toes.

 

“I-I don’t know…” he mumbles. And it’s true. Honestly, he doesn’t know. He didn’t even know that was a thing, a possibility. Maybe his life has just been too preoccupied for exploring the possibilities of sex— maybe he’s just been really naive about these things. Either way, the only thoughts his brain can produce right now are, ‘there’s no way in hell they would even _fit_ ’ and ‘but… would they?’.

 

Steve leans back into the couch and smiles at Tony.

 

“Mm, I’m not sure, babe. He’s delicate,” the artist says, getting quiet and moving in at the end, like that’s some secret between him and Tony. Like whispering and leaning in will somehow prevent Peter from hearing that.

 

And he knows exactly what that is, Peter knows what they’re doing. He’s not _that_  naive, ok. He is well aware that he was very much supposed to hear that and he’s well aware that it was completely intended to get the exact reaction he’s about to give them.

 

Which is pulling slightly back and crossing his arms and frowning.

 

“Excuse you, I am _not_  delicate.” He pouts (because really, he is pouting).

 

Steve and Tony just grin at him, playing on in their so very fake concern. Tony reaches out to him, sitting up and cupping the boy’s cheek with a faux tender expression.

 

“It’s ok, we know you’re a bit fragile. It’s nothing to be embarrassed by, angel.” The man says, barely suppressing a shit-eating grin. Peter just narrows his eyes and almost manages to bite Tony’s hand, but the inventor pulls away just in time.

 

“I’m not _fragile_. And I’m not embarrassed, I’m…” he can’t finish the sentence, because he doesn’t know how to convey to them that despite never having thought of this before, and being extremely nervous and doubtful about the concept now that he _is_  thinking about it, and despite this being a perfectly platonic afternoon thus far— he’s curious. He’s nervous but he’s _curious_  and he doesn’t know what to do about that.

 

Because Peter is twenty years old with a barely-not-teenaged libido and he just flipped through an entire notebook full of drawings of his own self and two men he is deeply attracted to having various sexual encounters, and now looking at that drawing, and the way Steve and Tony look at _him_ — shit.

 

He’s very, very curious.

 

Both men raise their eyebrows when he fails to finish the sentence.

 

“It makes you nervous, doesn’t it?” Steve offers, and Peter tips his head from side to side again.

 

Steve’s completely correct. It does make him nervous; but he doesn’t want to nod and agree like he’s expecting them to actually _do_  it _right now_. Other than some kissing and affectionate touches, nothing sexual has happened all day, and Peter feels a little ridiculous with his body’s youthful habit of jumping at any opportunity for sex, even if it’s completely unprecedented.

 

“I mean, yeah. It doesn’t seem like it would… work. I didn’t- I didn’t even think that was a thing that people could do.” He tries, then catches himself again and looks up. “Is it? Is it even a thing?”

 

The couple stare at him for a moment before Steve is smiling sympathetically and Tony outright laughs a bit. The inventor reaches out again, grabbing Peter’s waist and tugging him in so he ends up (a bit clumsily) falling in between them, sitting on the couch with a semi-surprised squeak.

 

Tony tosses his arm around the boy’s shoulders and plants a kiss to his temple as Steve puts a comforting hand on his knee.

 

“Yes, sweet pea. It is a ‘thing’.” The artist explains. Peter feels his ears turn hot and red, squirming where he sits. “And it does work,” Steve continues, “you have to be careful and prepare for it really well, but it’s very much possible.”

 

“Oh, ok,” Peter nods and tries to focus on making the flush disappear from his face and not on how pleasantly warm the husbands’ bodies are next to him.

 

Are they always this warm? Is he getting a little warm right now? It’s cloudy and a little chilly outside, maybe the thermostat is just up too high.

 

Steve and Tony look at him a bit longer, as if they’re waiting for him to ask more questions (he does sometimes bombard them with questions about new things, especially new sex related things, so that’s a fair assumption). When Peter doesn’t respond and decidedly puts his brain to work on not being pink and clammy, Tony noses at his hairline, tipping his head to look at Peter more.

 

“So?” The man prompts. His voice is soft and it helps Peter cool down some more.

 

“So…?” The younger echos, turning to look at him with furrowed eyebrows. Tony gives him a little smile.

 

“Do you wanna try it?” He asks. Peter feels his throat close up and, nope, there goes the whole ‘cooling down’ idea. He shifts around some more on the couch and feels Steve squeezing lightly on his knee.

 

“I was just messing with you about you being delicate, Pete, but if you don’t want to try, that’s completely ok. You know that, right?” The artist says gently.

 

(Something in the back of Peter’s mind wants to argue that no, the couple both genuinely are completely convinced that the younger is actually fragile. He’ll pry about that later.)

 

Peter picks at the hem of his top, a t-shirt that reads ‘biologists take cellfies’. He stares at where Steve’s hand is on his knee before looking up at the older man (wow, these guys are tall).

 

“I know,” he replies quietly. And he does. They make that abundantly clear, and though Peter’s very, very rarely refused something, the option not to, the option to change something or stop— is always there.

 

Peter never had a lot of romantic or sexual experience (see: not knowing double penetration existed), and what he did have was… clumsy. But pretty much the first thing he learned about intimate relationships was about consent— specifically how important his is to the couple. (He often worries that he doesn’t check theirs enough, though the husbands are quite quick to remind him that they're the ones with the majority of the control in any given situation and that “thank you Peter, that’s sweet of you, but you really don’t have to worry” and “baby, between you and us, who’s more likely to go along with something even if they don’t want to because they’re nervous about disappointing the others?”).

 

“Do you, though?” Steve presses. “Because you’ve almost never said no to anything, sweetheart, even when you’re scared, and that kinda makes us nervous sometimes.” The artist elaborates, and Peter looks at him with something like concern and defensiveness both.

 

“I know, but that’s because I want to, even though I’m nervous. ‘cause I trust you guys, and, I guess, I’m just open to new things. I don’t really search them out, but when you guys offer to show me stuff, it’s. Everything’s less scary with you. Suppose I like trying out new… things.” The boy says, and, ok, hopefully that wasn’t… too much information. He shifts uncomfortable and feels like he said something he shouldn't have, missing the adoring looks the husbands give him at the accidental confession, before Tony distracts him from his thoughts.

 

“Do you want to?” The man offers.

 

Peter is puzzled for a split second, thinking, ‘ _Do I want to…? Oh, right. Do I want to try getting fucked by two guys with ridiculously massive dicks at the same time. Right_ ’.

 

He takes a long breath and relaxes back more into the couch. He meant what he said, and honestly, he’s still feeling pretty… curious.

 

“I mean, i-if you guys want to,” he says, looking between the two. This time he doesn’t miss the fondness on either man’s face as they grin down at him, and it puts butterflies in his stomach.

 

“Pete, baby, I _drew_  it. We want to. Do you, though?” Steve chuckles, and Tony’s hand finds the back of Peter’s head, threading into his hair. The man scratches lightly at Peter’s scalp and runs his fingers through some messy tuffs as Peter melts into the touch.

 

“I think— I think so. Yeah. I want to,” he mumbles, then, under his breath, “not sure if you’d fit, but I’d try.”

 

The husbands heard him anyways and laugh. Steve kisses the top of his head and breathes in deep (Peter’s glad he showered today).

 

“We’ll do that tonight, then. But if you change your mind, just tell us. Ok?” The artist reminds, and Peter nods. Magic touch. These two, they have a magic touch. The boy is turning into a puddle just from Tony playing with his hair, despite so many little spikes of arousal and anxiety in such a short, recent amount of time. The only logical reasoning is that they’re magic and have Peter under their spell.

 

“Mhm, ok. Will do.” Peter murmurs. He reaches over and takes back the sketchbook he’d been looking at earlier, flipping the page and feeling relief that it’s not another erotic scene. Steve kisses his head again and grabs his other drawing pad back. Tony brings his attention back to his laptop, but he keeps the one arm behind the couch, flitting through the small boy’s hand and occasionally caressing Steve’s bicep.

 

Most of the rest of the artworks in the book are domestic, thankfully. Peter settles down but feels a combination of excitement and nervousness make a home in his stomach.

 

The evening can’t come soon enough.

 

Yet somehow he blinks and it’s there.

 

They spend the rest of the day in a similar manner, breaking for snacks and for Tony and Steve to arm wrestle. Peter had no idea who was going to win and resolved to encourage them both equally, taking on a sports game announcer type voice and narrating their every move. Tony made some offhand remark about Peter not quitting his day job to be a play-by-play broadcaster, which the younger took mock-personal offense too and started cheering for Steve only as retaliation.

 

Steve won, and when Tony suggested Peter should play the winner, the smaller had looked at him and deadpanned a, ‘Funny, you’re funny. Good joke’.

 

Tony let Peter look over his shoulder at whatever he happened to be programming for SI (today it was code for one of his newer robots— one that actually had to be highly functional, "unlike DUM-E".) with nothing but an amused grin, answering the boy’s questions and even letting Peter write some of the sequence.

 

Steve decided to teach Peter how to draw noses. That… didn’t go super well at first, but eventually the younger got the hang of it (so long as he wasn’t trying to draw a real still life).

 

And then they were ordering Chinese takeout for dinner, and Peter raced Tony to see who could eat their rice faster with chopsticks (Peter won), and Steve helped Tony crush Peter in a bear hug in retaliation, and Peter let the husbands split his fortune cookie because he doesn't really like the taste, and then—

 

Then they’re in the couple’s bed. And Peter is nervous. Kind of very, very nervous.

 

However, he’s also _really_  hard at this point, so he’s plenty eager to get on with it.

 

He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, same as Steve and Tony, sitting in the middle of the mattress. Tony is holding one of his hands in both of the older man’s, making his palm look small and his fingers lithe in comparison. The inventor kisses each of his knuckles and the expanse of the back of his hand, his palm, the tips of his fingers and down to his wrist, then all over again. Steve is sitting more in front of him, cupping his face and rubbing his middle soothingly, giving him soft, slow kisses.

 

They’re being gentle and easy right now but they all have tents in their boxers.

 

Peter sighs into the kisses, letting Steve push him backwards on the bed while Tony moves to lounge beside him. Steve’s hands find the waistband of Peter’s boxers and start to pull them down slowly before the younger’s head even hits the pillow.

 

When he does touch down on plush softness, lifting his hips to help the artist remove his underwear, Tony is next to him. He leans on one arm and pushes Peter’s hair out of his face delicately, kissing his cheekbones. He presses his lips to the tip and the arch of the boy’s nose, peppering kisses over his cheeks.

 

As soon as Steve rids him of his boxers, Peter’s hard on springs free. It’s just a little bit flushed but already gleaming at the tip and he sucks in his stomach a little on reflex, accentuating his ribs and abdomen muscles.

 

“Pretty boy, sweet thing,” Steve whispers. He takes advantage of the unintentional emphasis and gives soft kisses to Peter’s ribs, rubbing his fingers where the boy’s stomach caves in so much until he relaxes and his belly returns to normal.

 

They already have the lube out, and Tony hands the bottle to Steve without looking— without taking his eyes off the younger boy’s face.

 

“Relax, alright?” The artist hushes as he uncaps the bottle, Peter startling at the snapping sound. “This part is just like normal.”

 

The younger hums, taking slow breaths and helping the older man spread his thighs. Steve kneels between his legs, Peter’s knees bent and his feet flat against the sheets. He lets Tony climb partially over him, towering over his upper half from his spot beside the small boy, littering butterfly kisses all over his face.

 

Peter holds onto Tony’s biceps and thinks about the way the man’s lips feel on his skin as he breathes with an open mouth, eyes closed, trying to keep as relaxed as he can. Steve’s cool, wet finger touches to his rim and he swallows down his nerves. It’s fine. This is the part he’s used to.

 

It’s just that, knowing what comes after and feeling a little nervous about possibly being torn in half by two dicks has him a bit more tense than usual.

 

Steve circles the finger carefully for a while, letting the lube warm up more and Peter get more comfortable. The man rubs soothing circles against the younger’s thigh until he seems ready, starting to push in.

 

Somehow, someway, Peter will never actually be prepared for how much of a stretch just one of the husbands’ _fingers_  brings.

 

The artist cautiously works in the first digit, giving Peter breaks to adjust to the intrusion, pulling out a little and pushing back in. He twists his finger slowly, whispering little praises every once in a while into the room that would be silent if it hadn’t started to rain.

 

Something Peter loves about being on the cusp of spring.

 

After a while the older man decides the boy is ready for more, and another equally wet finger ghosts against the smaller’s pink entrance, easing slowly into his tight hole. Peter squirms only a little bit, holding Tony’s arms slightly tighter.

 

“Easy baby, that’s it,” the inventor coos as he latches onto the crook of the younger’s neck.

 

Peter moans quietly at the feeling of Tony’s teeth and tongue on his skin, his chest almost touching the older man’s with each deep breath in.

 

Steve works on cautiously sliding his fingers in and out, spreading lube and massaging Peter’s walls with warmth and slick. As Peter slowly but surely loosens up and relaxes into the sensations, Tony finishes one hickey and moves a little ways up the boy’s neck, tracing smooth skin with his lips and settling down to make another love bite.

 

Peter’s not really sure when Steve started kissing his thighs but he notices when the artist adds a nip with his teeth, making Peter gasp ever so slightly. Tony hears the sharp intake and smiles where he’s sucking on the younger’s throat, one hand moving to caress the boy’s chest and middle.

 

Eventually, relaxed by kisses and soft-spoken encouragement, Steve gets three fingers to pump easily in Peter’s hole. With a final peck to one thigh and a squeeze to the other, Steve and Tony both pull away. Steve moves aside, resting next to Peter’s hip and putting a clean hand on his chest to keep the boy from sitting up. Tony takes his husband’s spot between the younger’s legs, a soft expression on his face as he takes off his boxers and slicks up his hard length.

 

“Alright, sweetheart, nothing we haven’t done before,” Steve says quietly. The artist leans down to kiss Peter on the lips, and the small boy sighs against his mouth.

 

God, _god_ , kissing either of these two will never ever get old. Steve’s lips are a little fuller than Tony’s, but a bit more firm— the point being that they’re smooth and warm and belong to an excellent kisser, and Peter kind of loses his brain to the sensation until he feels the hot, wet head of Tony’s cock pressing against his entrance.

 

Tony moves gently, taking his time pushing in. Once his tip finally breeches Peter’s tight rim, he pauses for a few seconds, right where he’s thickest and stretching the boy the most. Peter can’t hold back a quiet moan that slips into his kiss with Steve at the feeling.

 

The inventor sinks in at a wonderfully slow pace, breaking and making sure he doesn’t push Peter too much (not yet). Steve kisses Peter as he does, licking at the boy’s lips and slipping his tongue into the younger’s mouth.

 

Once Tony’s fully inside the smaller, graciously avoiding Peter’s most sensitive spots and simply resting where he’s completely enveloped by the boy, the hand rubbing pleasantly at the younger’s belly lowers. Steve grabs his length lightly, stroking him a few times and swiping over his tip before continuing down to where Tony is flush against Peter’s hips.

 

“Ok, angel. Any time you wanna slow down or stop, you say so, right?” Tony says, holding the boy’s thighs with comforting firmness where his legs are spread around the man’s waist. Peter nods, meeting Steve’s eyes, and then Tony’s.

 

“Right, ok,” he whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice because, shit, oh shit, he’s nervous. Right. Ok.

 

He trusts them, definitely more than what’s healthy, and everything’s going to be fine. Because-

 

“Ok. We won’t hurt you, baby, promise,” Steve begins, kissing from Peter’s cheekbone and down to his jaw, mouthing at the ridge, “just breathe. Relax, honey.” And then one of Steve’s still very lubed fingers is prodding where only the base of Tony’s cock is exposed.

 

Peter’s breath hitches and he closes his eyes, biting his lip in anticipation.

 

The finger just traces along the side of Tony’s length for a few seconds, spreading lube, testing the resistance of Peter’s entrance. He feels so full already, both of the husbands are not at all small and he’s growing more and more jittery by the second. This isn’t going to work, he knows it isn’t, god it’s going to hurt like hell and they’ll have to stop because there’s just _no way_  he can possibly handle that, there’s no way they can—

 

Peter’s thoughts are cut off by Steve’s finger pressing into him.

 

He groans and pushes his head down hard against the pillow, reaching out and grabbing onto Tony’s waist and Steve’s arm. His breaths are shaky and he’s squeezing his eyes so tightly that the black of his eyelids is turning to patterned red.

 

It burns. It downright _stings_ , and Peter wiggles at the intrusion, the discomfort of officially being stretched more than he ever has before. Steve slips the entire digit in pretty quickly, actually, and the coldness of lube he didn’t bother to warm up helps ease the glide.

 

Peter’s grateful that he adds the whole finger so fast. He’s not sure he could have handled the slow burn of stretching open inch by inch and not ever catching a break.

 

They let him breathe as soon as Steve’s finger is pressed in alongside Tony. The artist kisses his jaw and neck, his husband rubbing Peter’s thighs and letting out low sounding sighs.

 

“How, how you feelin’ Pete?” Tony asks. Peter takes a second to appreciate how difficult it sounds for the inventor to speak, how tight around his cock Peter’s hole must be with his husband’s finger alongside him.

 

“Mm… ‘m good,” the boy says, voice barely there. He swallows heavy and wets his lips a little desperately. Tony nods in acknowledgement, and then Peter doesn’t have to have his eyes open to know that the couple start kissing.

 

Tony’s hot hands on his skin and the lewd sounds of the husbands making out serve as a pretty decent destruction, Peter thinks. He squirms around and clings too tightly to the older men and listens to the way their tongue slide together and lips make soft smacking sounds, suppressing whimpers at every shift of Tony’s cock or Steve’s finger inside him, until the burn fades more and he doesn’t feel so torn.

 

The two men must be able to sense him relaxing, because they break apart and Steve kisses from Peter’s collar bones to his lips.

 

“Ready for more?” He asks, voice low. Peter nods because he doesn’t think his voice will work right now, and he’s rewarded with a teasing lick of Steve’s tongue to one of his swollen nipples. It makes him shudder and he hears Tony laugh breathlessly above him.

 

The second finger is, decidedly, not easier than the first.

 

Steve adds more cold lube and moves in just as gently, just as quickly— and it burns just as much.

 

Peter whimpers this time, because he can’t stop himself, and then it’s like the gates opened up. All the sounds he’d been desperately trying to keep in (he’s not really loud, exactly, he’s actually pretty quiet for the most part, but he’s _noisy_  in the sense that despite the relatively non-obnoxious volume, he makes a lot of noise, and when he’s still got the coherent mind to care, that makes him feel embarrassed) get let out and he moans, a little whiny and choked off, as Steve pushes in.

 

Once there are two fingers in with Tony, Peter lets go of Tony’s side in favor of throwing his arm over his face. He covers his eyes, _knowing_  that he’ll end up crying (whether from how good it is or because it’s physically impossible and he’s going to die, he’ll find out), and can’t stop the flush from traveling all the way down to his chest when the husbands hum in amusement at his actions.

 

(Does everyone cry as much or often as he does during sex, Peter wonders? Is he weird like that? Or, are Steve and Tony just that overwhelming? Peter doesn’t know, but he’s rapidly losing his ability to care  right now.)

 

“That’s it pretty boy, doing so well,” Tony whispers. His voice sounds gravelly and somehow like satin and Peter likes it a lot. He feels himself slipping away as he listens to what he’s guessing is Steve kissing over Tony’s chest, because the responding moans sound like the inventor’s, and he takes in heaving breaths to try and adjust faster.

 

The third finger is just a little bit easier.

 

Steve adds more lube again, and uses the same tender swiftness to get the digit inside, but this time Peter’s logical (and, consequentially anxious) mind is floating steadily away, and he’s automatically less tense in accepting the additional stretch.

 

The artist has his fingers lining Tony’s cock, evening out the stretch. Once the third finger is all the way seated and they’ve given Peter a few minutes to stop squirming, Steve starts to pump the digits. He moves them just a little bit out, barely an inch, and waits before moving them back in. But the sensation causes Peter to moan and while his legs tense up around Tony’s waist, his tummy, chest and back go lax.

 

“There you go, sweetheart. Feeling better?” Steve prompts. All Peter can do is nod with his arm still slung over his eyes. It _does_  feel better. It feels good, actually. The sting is still there but it just puts him more on edge, makes him feel the sensation of being full, the heat, the glide of Steve’s fingers more intensely.

 

Peter moans breathily, biting his lip again. He wiggles around a bit, trying to work out the extent of the feeling. Steve and Tony oblige him, the inventor’s hands slipping from his thighs to his hips, Steve’s fingers pulling out a little further and pumping a little faster.

 

They work at it slowly, tentatively exploring the feelings, how tight and hot everything has become. After a while, Steve adds a fourth finger.

 

This one goes in much easier than the first three, Peter being a lot more relaxed and additionally loosened by the way they’d been trying out the sensations. It still burns a bit, but Peter takes it with feminine moans and little gasps. He relaxes his hold on Steve’s arm ever so slightly and tries for the umpteenth time to swallow the lump in his throat.

 

When he’s more or less adjusted to the ridiculous girth of Tony’s cock and four of Steve’s fingers, the artist starts to bunch his fingers together, sliding around, making some areas even thicker and some less. He picks up with the thrusting again, all the while Tony keeping still.

 

Peter only realizes how long the inventor has held off from movement when he hears the man groan a quiet, low, ‘babe, please hurry up’ to Steve, and the boy isn’t sure if he was meant to hear it or not. But then he can’t _not_  notice how Tony’s shaking just a bit, and the hold on his hips is bruising, and how long has he held still inside of Peter while his husband slowly makes everything tighter and hotter, then starts pumping fingers alongside Tony’s cock?

 

The realization that Tony is painfully, _painfully_  turned on right now and that Peter is significantly responsible for that hits the younger like a freight train and he groans. He wants this to happen. He wants them to try. He doesn’t care if it works or not (yes he does, that’s a total lie, he’s still completely terrified) so long as someone starts fucking him soon.

 

“S-Steve, Steve p-plea-, Tony I-” Peter can’t form a proper sentence but he wants them to know he’s ready.

 

He meant it. He’s not delicate. They can move on, they can do this.

 

Holy _shit_  he’s so hard right now. (Think with your dick, Peter).

 

The pain and discomfort and fear that came with prepping had kind of distracted Peter a bit from how awfully hard he is. He didn’t soften at all when he felt the stinging of added stretch. Now he’s leaking onto his own stomach and his cock is almost as flushed as his cheeks, and he needs _something_  to happen or he might explode.

 

“Alright, baby. We’ve got you. We’ve got you sweetheart, gonna make you feel good,” Tony rumbles out, and when Steve pulls his fingers out (Peter almost cries at how suddenly loose he feels) the inventor drops down almost entirely on top of the boy, kissing his cheeks and nose and lips.

 

Peter kisses back needily, moving his arm away to thread his fingers into Tony’s coarse hair. He doesn’t register the shuffle of Steve removing his boxers or the man slicking up his own cock, only feeling how the way Tony’s moved over him made the man roll into him and (intentionally or otherwise) grind his cock into Peter’s prostate.

 

When Tony pulls away, Peter almost sobs out loud. But then he sees Steve, naked and moving, and he sighs at the prospect of things finally picking up.

 

(Holy shit, he’s nervous.)

 

The couple both move their hands to Peter's waist, and the younger almost sobs when he feels Tony pull out. The husbands hush him and Tony moves to full lay down next to Peter, as he helps Steve turn the small body between them more on his side.

 

"That's it, just like that, there you go," Tony murmurs as Peter's hips shift. He's almost on his back, but not quite, his body twisted as his hips are turned more sideways. Peter doesn't know (or care, at this point) what position they're going for, what position they need to make this work, he just wants _someone_ (both of them?) back inside him or he might lose it. 

 

As if he can hear the smaller's thoughts, Tony slips back inside Peter, engineer as flush to Peter as possible, propping himself up on one arm and wrapping the other around Peter's waist.

 

Once he's all the way in again, and Peter's breathing a little erratically, Steve grabs onto his leg, the higher one as the half sideways position has them on top of each other. The artist pushes Peter's leg up and out, and part of the back, part of the side of the boy's thigh is pressed up against the man's slightly sweaty torso.

 

Peter doesn't look down to see the tangle of Steve and Tony's legs with his. He doesn't see the messy way their bodies move together so Steve can kneel at what's now kind of between Peter's legs while Tony is still close to him laying down. His legs are spread… _obscenely_  wide to accommodate the the way Steve has one almost straight up. 

 

Peter almost tries to sit up, but thinks better of it, finding himself taking fistfuls of the sheets and opening his eyes in time to see Steve sucking a hickey onto Tony's knee. The artist sighs at the love bite and looks with hooded eyes to Peter.

 

“You ready, sweetheart?” He asks. Peter swallows thickly. No, no he’s not ready at all. Not even a little bit. There’s no way in hell this is going to work, but he’s nodding anyways, biting his lip and trying desperately, with what remains of his coherent brain, to shove away his fear.

 

The couple can still read his anxiety on his face, of course (or maybe it’s because he’s trembling, slightly) and Steve kisses his calf where it’s pressed against the man's chest, rubbing his hand soothingly along the expanse of milky skin from Peter’s knee to his upper thigh.

 

“Are you sure? We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with, baby. It’s never too late to change your mind.” He says quietly. Peter is definitely not going to cry right now, so he takes a long, deep breath and nods again.

 

“I’m sure,” he whispers, putting on his bravest face. Steve smiles at him, and Tony sits up more to do the same, and _god_ , they look so reassuring and fond and kind and— _shit_.

 

“Alright. We’ll take it nice and easy, ok? Remember, angel, we won’t hurt you.” Tony promises, and then they’re both looking down to where Steve's length is angled beside and a bit behind and a bit above him, and Peter feels the tip of Steve’s cock pressing against his hole, and fuck, fuck fuck fuck.

 

This won’t work, it’s not going to work, how in the hell are they supposed to fit?! This was a bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, Peter thinks he’s going to hyperventilate, this is impossible, this is—

 

Oh holy _shit_.

 

Steve pushes past Peter’s rim fast.

 

Not too fast, not fast enough to tear or really hurt him, but fast enough so that the thickest part of his cock moves quickly inside the younger.

 

The three of them moan in sync at the sensations, Peter’s significantly higher pitched and needier than the husbands. He loses his breath in his throat and chokes on nothing, almost tearing the sheets he’s clinging to, his eyes squeezing closed and biting his lip so hard he’d be worried about drawing blood if he could even think that well.

 

As it is, he can’t think at all.

 

“How you holding up, baby? You ok?” Tony asks, and he sounds wrecked. Peter knows he’d sound a million times worse, though, but he’s pretty sure he can’t speak anyways, so he just nods furiously.

 

Nods desperately and pants for breath because he’s fuller than he’s ever been before and it burns and he feels like he’s falling to pieces but _he’s ok_. He is ok.

 

Still alive. It's painful in the way that’s almost inevitable when being fucked by two large dicks for the first time, but not painful in a way that makes Peter want to stop.

 

Painful in a way that’s stealing his breath away and making him arch his back and his knuckles turn white, his entire body tensing, but feels _right_.

 

The husbands groan as Steve pushes in further, slowly but steadily sinking deeper and deeper. Peter tries not to choke on his own spit when the man bottoms out, and yeah, he’s definitely a little longer than Tony and that sensation is driving him crazy.

 

He tries to sit up, tries to turn, tries to reach for them for some unknown impulsive reason, and the result has both men suddenly leaning over him to catch his hands.

 

The movement takes them all by surprise and the three of them gasp and moan at the sensation, the angle changing and all Peter can do is cry out and cling to the hands that reach out towards him.

 

Maybe that inspired them, maybe it was the plan all along, but once they start moving over Peter, they don’t stop until they’re almost on top of him. The two men take their time getting there, easing their way down so not too move too fast.

 

In the end, Steve laces his fingers with one of Peter’s hands, holding it down beside the small boy’s head, Tony pressing the back of Peter's other hand into his palm and folding his fingers down, holding the smaller hand in his and keeping himself propped up with the same arm. Their other hands move to rest on the boy's chest and side. Peter thinks he couldn’t open his eyes if he wanted to, just breathing in high pitched panting, little whimpers escaping him.

 

His hole is on fire and his cock is screaming at him.

 

He holds tight to the husbands’ hands, bent in such a contorted way as Steve leans over him, falling slightly to the side opposite Tony, a little in front of the boy. Peter moans, the last of his logical mind fleeing him. Good riddance, he thinks, as he turns his head back and Tony’s mouth finds his.

 

Steve peppers kisses to his neck, up his jaw and down to his shoulder while the inventor kisses him. There’s a lot of tongue and a lot of saliva and it’s downright messy but neither of them care, pouring all their tension into the kiss until Peter’s adjusted enough for them to move.

 

When he is finally ready, wiggling around to test it out and finding that he feels ok with movement, Tony is the first one to go.

 

He pulls out very, very slowly, until he’s almost completely removed, and pushes back in equally slowly. And he repeats himself a few times before finally starting to speed up a bit. It doesn’t take long once Tony’s started to move for Steve to join in.

 

It’s the strangest sensation, having two large cocks moving in and out of him, masses of slick and heat sliding along his walls and stretching him simultaneously. Peter feels dizzy with it, dizzy with everything, and his eyes feel warm and wet.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s started crying until Steve is kissing the tears away. One of their free hands (Tony’s? Steve’s? He doesn’t _know_ ) finds one of Peter’s pink nipples, nudging against the bud and lightly rubbing over it.

 

When the teasing fingers pinch down suddenly, accented by a snap of the hips (Tony’s hips), Peter knows it must be the inventor’s hand.

 

Which means it’s Steve’s hand that marks a blazing trail down his belly to his cock.

 

Steve takes a loose hold of him, stroking gently at first, fingers ghosting over his tip. When Peter can’t stop himself from bucking up into the artist’s hand, the man smiles against his skin and tightens his grip slightly, speeding up.

 

Tony’s hand moves down, tracing the divots of the boy’s muscle and ribs, passing Steve’s hand and running a little trail from the boy’s hole to his balls and around his thighs.

 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re perfect, so fucking perfect. Taking us so well, baby, you’re so good,” Tony rambles, nipping Peter’s earlobe. The boy moans at the praise, and once he starts, he can’t stop.

 

Every thrust the two men make draws out another long, needy moan from the smaller. He mewls when one of them hits his prostate, his whole body nearly convulsing from the stimulation and a gush of precome wetting Steve’s fingers. Once they found it (whoever found it), though, they start to aim for it.

 

It takes a short while, but Steve and Tony find a rhythm pretty easily. They move as opposites. When Tony pulls out, Steve pushes in, each one hitting Peter’s sweet spot at every thrust, and it’s all of a few seconds before Peter starts crying more.

 

The slow tears squeezed out because he couldn’t stop them are replaced by near sobs. He keens when Steve runs the pad of one finger over his slit and chokes through a moan when Tony bites down on one of his nipples.

 

Peter can’t _breathe_.

 

He feels like he’s being split in half and it’s so good, it’s so good. His cock is weeping and his whole body feels hot, sweaty and burning up and rigid but pliant to the way the couple fuck him. The needy pleasure that was pooling in his stomach turns to pressure, dense and heavy and desperate and he thinks he can feel the husband’s cocks up in his throat.

 

Tony’s hand starts to move back up his stomach and freezes over his tummy, only a moment passing before he’s groaning like he’s been wounded.

 

“Pete, baby, give- give me your hand,” he says breathlessly. He lets go of the hand he had pinned and Peter lets the man bring it down with his own free hand, laying Peter’s palm over his belly and covering it with Tony’s much larger.

 

For a moment Peter is confused, and then the husbands thrust in together ( _oh christ_ ) and Peter’s eyes fly open.

 

Tear stained and gleaming, he looks to Tony with something like panic, before full realization hits him and his head falls back with a ruined moan.

 

He can feel them. He can _feel_  them with his _hand_ , _through_ his stomach.

 

He can feel their cocks bulging out of his belly and it’s, hell, it’s so much hotter than Peter thinks it should be.

 

“Oh f-fu-uck, nngg,” he groans. Tony drags his hand away, pinning his wrist down where it was before, but returns his free hand to Peter’s middle.

 

“God, baby, look at you. You’re so fucking small, angel, so little and still taking us so well, pretty boy— you’re so cute, so cute when your little tummy’s too small for our cocks,” the inventor groans, all but babbling, and Steve makes a sound like he physically couldn’t hold it back at his husband’s dirty talk.

 

“Precious boy, so fucking perfect for us,” he adds, licking Peter’s neck and swiping his palm over the head of the boy’s cock. Peter preens at the filthy praise, at the way Tony and Steve can be so crude and still make him feel so good, his body trembling as they start to thrust into him a little harder, a little faster.

 

Every time they hit his prostate he feels bolts of pleasure rushing through him, and he’s getting double the sensations now, double the contact. His sweet spot feels abused in no time at all, and just when he thinks his orgasm is building up, Steve stops touching him.

 

Peter whimpers at the loss, choking out a sob and wanting to plead with the man to keep touching him but finding his voice unable to work. So he settles for moaning pitifully, needy and high and hiccuping on his own cries.

 

Steve just smiles against the small boy’s smooth skin and drops his mouth onto Peter’s neck, his hand going to tease the hard nub that Tony’s not already licking and sucking on. The artist bites down a little sharper than he normally would but Peter loves it, his back trying to arch more but held down by the body (bodies) on top of him.

 

It’s difficult to do with the way the husbands are fucking him, but Peter doesn’t have the coherent thoughts to think about it when he starts to grind against Steve's stomach. The man’s abdomen is hot and firm and Peter is positively dripping precome, and the friction feels sogoodsosogood, mixed with the way the men are hammering into his prostate at every chance.

 

He’s quickly working back to his lost orgasm when Tony’s hand leaves his belly to hold his hips down, denying him the touch.

 

Peter whimpers like it hurts him, which it kind of does, but Tony just nips his nipple in retaliation.

 

“Don’t wanna come too quick, sweetheart, or you’ll be way too sensitive. Think you can hold off a little longer?” The man asks, and Peter would be annoyed by his teasing voice if the boy could think at all.

 

All he does is nod and moan as Steve starts a new hickey, and Tony licks the pink bud as an apology.

 

Peter thinks he’s dying, but this time, he likes it.

 

He loves it.

 

He feels torn apart, he’s so impossibly full and everything is hot and slick and tight and good, every movement setting off sparks. His blood is rushing with adrenaline and his cock is pulsing with the need to come and he thinks he might be going numb from the abuse to his prostate, but he loves it all. He’s never felt so ripped up and so high at the same time (or at all, maybe).

 

Steve and Tony feel so good, so incredibly good, the way they fill him up and kiss him (the way they hold him down and fuck him).

 

Peter writhes on the bed and moans, because that’s all he can do. His toes curl and his calves are a second off from cramping from how tense he is, but he loves it. Loves knowing that the husbands are filling him up so much that they’re literally bursting out of him, the bulge in his belly that he can’t see (could if he looked) but can _feel_.

 

Peter knows he’s crying hard, now, but he doesn’t care. He can’t stop. All he can do is let the tears steam out and sob through his moaning, and that’s all he wants to do.

 

It feels like everything is sensitive, his burning cock and wrecked hole most of all, and he’s over stimulated to a new limit. His prostate is screaming at him and he wants to come so bad, he doesn’t know how much time passes between when Tony held him off and when he starts to feel his climax coming anyways, but he does.

 

The pressure in his tummy is getting catastrophic and he knows already that he’ll probably pass out when his orgasm inevitably makes all the overwhelming sensations a million times more intense.

 

Steve pulled off his neck and Tony off his chest to kiss each other minutes ago, and now they're back. Steve is adding love bites to his shoulder and Tony is mouthing along his jaw, both of them groaning out sweet, sinful praise between kisses and licks, and Tony’s still holding him down but Steve moved his hand over the receding and reappearing bulge in Peter’s belly, and the boy can’t breathe or think at all.

 

He thinks he should warn them that he’s going to come soon, but he doesn’t think they’ll mind, because Steve’s moaning has gotten lower and Tony’s fucking into him faster and there’s more clumsy teeth in the way they kiss and bite him, and Peter knows they’re getting close.

 

Suddenly the smooth, rhythmic roll of the husbands thrusts turns to staccato, their hips snapping into Peter and nailing his sweet spot, and Peter would’ve screamed if his voice was capable.

 

Steve finds that sensitive spot in the crook of his neck and Tony puts a hickey directly on top of Peter’s nipple, and god, they’re moving _together_  now, hammering into Peter (not nearly as rough as he knows their capable of, but holy shit, when they do it _together_ ) and slamming into his prostate in sync, and the boy doesn’t know what happens to his body but it must be something cosmic and ethereal, because he feels like heaven and a hurricane all at once.

 

Peter’s back arches into a perfect bow when it hits him. He lets out the most feminine, wrecked cry, a wave of tears spilling out and every muscle in his body going rigid. All the heat he felt in his veins and the pleasure in his belly explodes, a rapture raging through him. He comes _hard_ , ivory spurting out and painting the creamy skin of his stomach and chest, and the torsos of Steve and Tony. His eyes roll back into his head and everything comes at him full force, intensified, and he thinks he probably passes out.

 

When his consciousness logs back on, Steve and Tony are thrusting into him with abandon. The rhythm is gone, the two men chasing their releases. Steve’s face is buried into Peter’s neck and Tony’s into the side of his head, and he doesn’t open his eyes but he thinks if he did, the world would be fuzzy and he’d be dizzy.

 

(They aren’t hitting his prostate anymore, and Peter knows that _has_  to be on purpose. He... he should thank them for that. He'll thank them later, maybe, if his brain ever decides to work.)

 

Tony ends up coming first.

 

He climaxes with a ruined moan and an animalistic grunt, fingers bruising Peter’s hip and wrist as he pushes his forehead into the pillow next to Peter’s. His thrusts stutter and he forces himself as deep as he can, almost collapsing on top of the boy when he’s done, heavy body so close to being on top of Peter’s.

 

It’s not long at all after Tony that Steve reaches his release. He groans into the small boy’s shoulder, muffling the sound in pretty pale skin. His hand slips up from Peter’s belly to the boy’s chest, pressing down a little, fingers hard against the younger. His hips roll clumsily and deep into the boy as he comes, filling Peter up even more, a mix with his husband’s release that makes Peter feel fuller, wetter, _hotter_.

 

Steve drops, panting, resting his weight on his side where he’s just barely not on top of Peter. The boy can’t open his eyes. He puts his focus on breathing and, is he still crying? He thinks he’s still crying. He doesn’t mind.

 

Peter doesn’t know how much time passes before his hand and wrist are released and the husbands slowly pull out of him. Tony slips out first, gently, and Steve follows him in the tender pursuit. Peter feels extremely oversensitive and the stimulation makes him whimper, not to mention the lewd sounds their cocks make popping out of his hole, but then hands are rubbing soothingly on his stomach and he doesn't have the energy to be anything but calm about it.

 

He barely registers the way the couple move out a little and Steve lets his leg down. He settles completely on his back with the space. And he feels them when they come back, though, and good. Good. They’re warm, he doesn’t want them to go.

 

With as much strength as he can, Peter throws his arms around Steve’s shoulders, the artist leaning over him to pepper kisses on his cheeks. He’s pretty sure they’re talking to him, but he doesn’t catch much else save for the sweet, soft tones and ‘did so good’, ‘perfect boy’.

 

While Peter tries to recollect control of his mind and body, Tony brushes the sweaty hair out of his husband’s face. He kisses Steve’s cheek as Steve kisses Peter’s, then turns so they can share a light peck on the lips.

 

It’ll be a little while before Peter can move. They’re in no hurry.

 

Slowly, Tony ducks down, kissing over Peter’s chest and down his belly. The inventor takes his time licking up the boy’s come off smooth skin and his husband’s stomach. Steve pulls away from Peter to drag Tony back up and does the same to him, soft tongue cleaning away Peter’s release.

 

Peter whimpers a little as Steve moves lower, so Tony wraps an arm around the boy’s back, pulling him close.

 

“Shh, shh, you’re alright. We’re not going anywhere, sweetheart, you’re ok.” He murmurs softly, planting kisses to every inch of the precious boy he can reach. Steve moves further down, slipping in between Peter’s legs again. He cautiously licks away the come from the smaller’s cock, careful not to cause too much stimulation, then slowly presses one finger back into Peter’s hole.

 

He’s loose, or, much more so than he normally would be, but Steve still moves slow and gently, ever considerate of how incredibly overstimulated the boy must be.

 

Peter doesn’t really know what he’s doing at first, though he realizes the man was checking for any tearing or harm and helping get the double load of come out of him, right about when Tony’s pulling him up.

 

“Let’s maybe try out a bath, huh? That sound good, angel?” The inventor offers. Peter nods, or thinks he does, and clings to the man as he scoops the boy into his arms.

 

The bath is already almost full and ready when Tony carries Peter into the bathroom bridal style.

 

(How did that happen? Steve, right? Steve left that long ago?)

 

Peter feels a frown and some more tears slipping from his eyes when he realizes that Steve left them earlier to start the bath, though he’s not sure why and doesn’t understand what his emotions or his body are doing when he suddenly really wants Steve to just come stand with him and Tony.

 

He must’ve been looking at the artist with some heartbroken longing, because when the older man turns to face them, his face goes even softer and he hurries over. Before he even says anything, he takes Peter’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead, then rubs his nose against Peter’s.

 

“I just had to start the water, sweetheart. It’s alright, you’re ok, we’re here,” he whispers. And yeah, ok. That feels better. Peter tries to smile at him but isn’t very capable of much anything right now, and he thinks he actually falls asleep because the next time he processes a thought, he’s in the bathtub.

 

He’s sitting in Steve’s lap and Tony is in front of them, the two men keeping their hands on each other, on Peter. The boy kind of fades in and out of consciousness as they bathe (not like he isn't relatively well experienced in that department), vaguely aware of his attempt to help Tony wash his own hair and how the man had gently guided his hands down, told Peter he was happy to do it for him. He misses Steve and Tony washing each other, washing Peter slowly, gently, taking their time to savor each touch to the boy's body.

 

He feels warm when Tony leans in so close, Peter’s face in his chest as the inventor kisses his husband over the younger’s shoulder.

 

He feels cold when Steve holds him outside the bath, cool air on his wet skin, and he’s torn between scrambling to steal more of the artist’s body heat and reaching out to stop Tony from moving so far away when the man goes to grab towels.

 

He wraps Peter in one of the fluffy ones (the nicest shade of beige, Peter thinks) and takes the boy into his own arms as Steve dries off. They walk together, close, back into the bedroom.

 

Tony sits down on the comfy chair in the corner, still cradling Peter in his arms and lap like a child, helping him dry off. As they sit, Steve strips the soiled sheets from the mattress, replacing them with fresh, clean blankets and quickly making the bed.

 

Peter tries not to cry about the man being so far away again, but a few tears slip out anyways. Tony rocks him slightly (and that makes him _really_ feel like a child) and kisses his temple, hushing him in a soothing voice. Peter doesn’t understand why he's crying, but he doesn’t think he has no. Not now, anyways. Not when Tony’s so warm and then they’re moving towards the bed, and the man is laying him down and not letting go before he joins the boy, and Steve comes in behind him and wraps his arms around Peter, kissing his damp hair over and over.

 

“Did so good for us, baby boy. You beautiful little thing, you,” Steve whispers. His voice sounds silky. The sheets feel silky. Everything is getting very warm again, but pleasantly so. Not burning hot like it was, but comfortingly warm. The safe kind of warm.

 

“Pretty angel, it’s alright. You did so well, honey, we’re not going anywhere. We’ve got you, sweetheart.” Tony coos, and Peter beams.

 

He feels warm and safe here. Warm and safe and happy and, there’s that word again.

 

He basks in all the skin-to-skin contact that comes with sleeping nude, sandwiched between two larger men, feeling good. He likes touching them. Likes when they touch him. Likes the things they say and how they say them.

  
He likes this. This part, even though he doesn’t really understand most of it and frequently isn’t even awake for bits of it. Likes this soft part just as much as when they have sex. He likes it when they just hold him.

 

Not that either Steve nor Tony Stark-Rogers are particularly stingy in dishing out affection or physical contact, but it’s different like this. Peter can’t explain it, and he thinks if he tried to he might start crying again, so he doesn’t try and just lets himself feel it.

 

Lets himself feel warm and safe and happy.

 

( ~~Lets himself feel loved~~.)

 

“Go to sleep now, baby. We’re right here, we’re with you.” Steve hums, nuzzling into Peter’s hair as Peter nuzzles into Tony’s chest.

 

The ‘always’ feels heavily implied, but Peter won’t dwell on it. Not that he’s capable of dwelling on anything at all right now. Instead, he settles for listening to the man and trying to nod, ending up just yawning and snuggling closer. He can hear their heartbeats, and he thinks that it might actually be his favorite thing in the world. 

 

Snug in between them.

 

(It’s a good place to be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't I write regular length chapters, why is it all 10k now, what is happeninggg
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it <3


	11. Author's Note

Hello lovely people, I am here with a psa that I'm going on vacation until July and won't be updating in that time. However, I'll be working on killing my writer's block with a cool rock over the next two weeks, and there will be lots to post when I get back!!!

 

(just thought I'd make a note this time, so you know I'm not dropping off the face of the earth or some shit *insert a kissy face emoticon that I can't actually add bc I'm on a laptop*) 

 

Thanks a million to everyone who reads + gives me encouragement, you're all wonderful and I love you <3

 

p.s. sorry if you've seen this already, I'm posting a little notice to all of my wips 

 

p.p.s. it took me so long to figure out what "wip" meant when people use it on ao3 but I did it and I know now, and I think I deserve a gold star

 

p.p.p.s I love you again <3 


	12. Light As A Feather pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets hurt. Steve and Tony are unbearably (perfectly) overprotective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been, like, two months!! I’m sorry I disappeared!! Thanks a million to everyone who left me such nice vacation wishes and compliments, it was an amazing trip and your comments give me life. I promise I won’t abandon this series, I still have more chapters to write
> 
> Thank you so much again, the encouragement and kudos all give me life, throwback to when I lost my shit at my first fic getting 100 hits, 35k on these ‘drabbles’, you’re all making my heart do the thump thump <3
> 
> Hope you like it and thanks for sticking through my unintentional hiatus(es). All the love, babes, all the love <3 
> 
> p.s. I changed this fic's name from 'Drabbles For Collar Full' to 'Pocket Full', hopefully there isn't any/too much confusion with that :D
> 
> notes/warnings: Peter sprains his ankle after being accidentally pushed down the stairs, hurt/comfort, mentions of lingerie, a little bit of submissive head-space (but we been knew).
> 
> (this isn’t as long as usual n there’s no sexual content in this chapter but there will be in pt. 2)

So.    
  
Peter's never been the most... _careful_  of people.    
  
He's not necessarily clumsy, but. He definitely trips and slips more often than the average person. Knee bumps and toe stubbing and knocking his hips and shoulders and head against things that he doesn’t really, consciously notice until the bruise is forming are all regular occurrences in Peter’s life. Probably more-so than most other people. 

 

He’s not a klutz. Not really. He’s just not that great at being physically coordinated enough to avoid the bumps and run-ins. Balance isn’t always his forte.

 

It’s never been a problem before. Inconvenient, oh, _constantly_ , but usually it’s things that he forgets about in a couple seconds. 

 

He’s so used to his own not-quite-carelessness-but-tendency-to-not-be-careful that sometimes he’ll give people little heart attacks. Ned startling when he sees just how long that scratch on Peter’s leg is from the splintered side of a desk at school. May fussing over a black eye that Peter got from standing in front of the fridge and looking up at the wrong time, getting himself hit in the face by the freezer door. Tony and Steve fretting over the bruise that ran up Peter’s side from his accidental encounter with the end post of the stair railing. 

 

He’s even freaked out Wade Wilson of all people, by running into him in the hallway with a busted lip after an unfortunate incident involving his bedside table. 

 

The point is, Peter is prone to knocking things over and bumping into stuff, usually at the expense of his physical well-being. Sometimes his legs stumble with their walking and his arms don’t catch him in time, and that’s just how Peter lives. 

 

So he really doesn’t blame that guy. 

 

Sure, the dude ran into him, and if it was intentional Peter might say the other student shoved him with his shoulder.

 

But it wasn’t intentional. Peter knows it wasn’t because the guy came barreling through the doors and into the stairwell already shouting “excuse me!” and Peter just really didn’t react in time to get out of the way. The other boy (‘man’, if they were to describe themselves, but still ‘boy’ to anyone more than a few years older than them, it seems) all but slammed into Peter, making him slip and stumble and fall down the last half of the stairs (and if he’s honest, he’s really kind of grateful for that guy’s hurry, so the other didn’t see just how ungraceful Peter’s descent was).

 

The stranger seemed really torn and slowed down a bit, amidst his rapid fire apologies, but vocally realized he really didn’t have any time to spare and ran off again, bounding down the last flight of steps and out the doors with another round of profuse apologizing. 

 

Peter was sort of in shock for a moment. His attention was split so drastically and so quickly between the event and the sudden pain in his left foot that he couldn’t quite process either for a few seconds. 

 

But after managing to brush off the run-in and accepting that was just one of those things that happens sometimes, he shakes off the last minute of his life and focuses on the way his ankle is positively throbbing. He twisted it, he knows he did. 

 

With a grumble about his incredible Parker luck, Peter tries to push himself off the ground. 

 

The moment he puts pressure on his ankle, though, he realizes he won’t be going anywhere for a while. 

 

The first smidgen of weight on his foot makes him fall back to the ground. He lets out a cry, pained and surprised, into the cold stairwell and the sudden volume makes him cringe and shut his mouth. His whole face flushes red and his heart skips a few beats while he listens to the echo ring out, thanking the universe itself that he’s so late and slow-moving tonight that there’s likely no one there to hear him. 

 

He hopes so. 

 

He takes a second to breathe and gauge the pain in his foot. It’s a hot, loud hurt that encompasses his entire ankle, well down his foot and up his calf. He’s hoping it’s not a sprain but he’s never really had a twisted ankle this bad. 

 

With a long sigh, he boxes away his dignity and half crawls, half drags himself back to the stairs and up a few, sitting with his back to the wall, stretching out his legs and propping his ankle up on the step above him. Maybe he just needs to sit it for a bit before he can walk it off. 

 

That’s what he tells himself when he takes out a textbook and starts some homework. If he’s going to sit around, he might as well be productive. 

 

Peter pointedly doesn’t look at the time while he works. He ignores his phone completely in favor of writing out equations and triple checking his answers. But it must be a solid half hour before he snaps out of his homework tunnel vision and thinks that he can probably get up now. 

 

Maybe with a limp, if the throbbing in his foot is any indication. 

 

(He already missed the bus twice over, anyways.)

 

He re-packs his bag and rights the straps over his shoulders, grabbing onto the railing and slowly standing up, putting weight only on his right leg. When he’s all the way up, he tries to take a step down the stairs.

 

The pain almost sends him crumbling to the floor. 

 

Ok, ok, so not a twist. Not walking, not even limping. There’s no way he can stand on his left foot, his ankle just will not allow it. It’s an incredibly frustrating realization that makes Peter want to throw something, but he rubs his temples and leans against the wall until he’s calmed down. 

 

Shit. 

 

He’s going to need help. He needs help. He won’t be able to get home without help. 

 

He texts Ned first.

 

No reply for five minutes means his best friend is probably busy and Peter really doesn’t want to hang around and wait any longer than he absolutely has to. He will die of embarrassment if a custodian sees him stranded on the stairs. 

 

(He takes a moment to be grateful he’s still in the stairwell and not a hallway or classroom.)

 

Peter texts MJ next. 

 

Radio silence. He feels the emotional equivalent to static signal and thinks about his options. 

 

May is working, he knows that, so she’s out of the question. He could, hypothetically, text Steve Stark-Rogers, because whether Tony is working or not (hard to say), Steve’s got that freelance thing that means he can basically do whatever he wants and would probably be able to give Peter a ride home. 

 

The issue is that he wouldn’t give Peter a ride home, though. If he finds out Peter can’t _walk_  right now, Steve will argue and win the argument and bring Peter to the Stark-Rogers house instead, and then _Tony_  will find out, and Tony is the biggest mother hen this planet has ever seen. 

 

Besides, Peter hates it when he makes them take care of him. He hates taking advantage of their consideration and kindness. He also hates how much they baby him (liar) and it would drive him crazy to have them fawning over him and treating him like he’s delicate ( _you love it_ , his traitorous mind supplies), which they would definitely do, because they’re both overprotective as fuck. 

 

Peter’s actually contemplating texting Wade Wilson, who he’s sort of kind of friends with now, but. Nope. Wade is a really good friend and a really good guy, but it’s late on a Friday evening, and the likelihood that Wade is either high as a kite, getting into trouble, or having sex with Vanessa (or some combination of those three) is too high to risk texting him. 

 

(Not that Peter doubts Wade would come help him anyways, but he’s not really in the mood to deal with an intoxicated or horny Wilson. That’s. That’s just a train wreck waiting to happen.)

 

Peter whimpers out loud and rubs his eyes furiously to try to make up his mind. Unless Ned or MJ text him back, his options are Steve or Wade. He doesn’t like those options, but that’s pretty much all he’s got unless he wants to wait an undetermined amount of time for Ned or MJ to answer their phones. 

 

He decides to wait. 

 

He’ll wait for five more minutes, and if he still doesn’t get a reply from his closest friends, then he’s texting Steve. 

 

He sits down again. 

 

When five minutes pass tantalizingly slow on his phone without a reply from Ned or Michelle, Peter gives up. He pulls up Steve’s contact in his messages. 

 

**Hey, are you busy?**  

 

He watches the seconds tick and tries to twist and turn his left foot, only to be met with pain. Two minutes later, Steve responds. 

 

**Stebe: Nope. What’s up?**

 

Peter sighs. This is awful. This is the worst. Parker luck? The. Worst. 

 

**I’m kinda stuck at the school. Could you give me a ride home?**

 

**Stebe: Sure thing**

 

Another message from Steve follows a second later. 

 

**Stebe: Elaborate on ‘stuck’.**

 

The man's not even here and Peter cringes internally. 

 

**I just messed up my foot a little, walking is hard**

 

Steve’s reply is just a mildly nerve-wracking ‘I see’ that probably translates to ‘I’ll refrain from calling the doctor until I see it for myself’. Peter slumps back against the wall and waits for the older man to arrive. 

 

When the texts come saying Steve is outside the school, Peter gives him a few directions as to where exactly he’s stranded and plays with the frays of his sleeve. This. This is cool. This is a really impressive feat, on Peter’s part. He rendered himself immobile by falling half way down the steps. As if the railing wasn’t right next to him. As if that random guy even hit him that hard. Smooth move, Parker. How to impress your decade older fuck buddies and convince the world you’re a capable adult— fall down the fucking stairs and sprain your ankle. 

 

Shit.

 

He has to stop wallowing in self-loathing when Steve opens the doors, looking confused for barely a second before his eyes climb the last flight and he sees Peter sitting on the mid-landing. 

 

The younger gives him a sheepish smile and what likely classifies as a pitiful wave. 

 

“Hi, Steve.” He says quietly. The artist’s face softens and he starts up the stairs.

 

“Hey, Pete. So tell me, what counts as ‘messed up’?” He prompts, stopping in front of Peter while the younger hauls himself to standing. 

 

“Um, I think I might have sprained my ankle. And, now I can’t walk on it. At all, really. I was hoping maybe you could help me get out?” He says quietly. Steve nods and offers him a reassuring smile. Peter’s expecting for the older man to wrap an arm around his waist and he can hang on to Steve’s shoulders (which, oh, that might be a little harder considering the height difference) and limp outside, but the artist steps into his space and wastes no time grabbing him and scooping him up. 

 

Peter lets out an undignified yelp as he’s swept into Steve’s arms, carried bridal style while the older man starts heading down the stairs. ( _No, no no no, this is not hot, it’s not that attractive— holy shit Steve is completely unfazed what the hell— ok it’s impressive but it’s not that hot_.)

 

“Steve! H-hey, wait, I was just, wait, you don’t have to carry me, I can-” 

 

“You just said you can’t walk on it, kiddo. Besides, if it’s that bad of a sprain, you shouldn’t take any risks or put any more stress on it. We’ll probably be faster this way, too.” Steve cuts off the younger’s sputtering, and Peter squirms around. 

 

If anyone sees him getting carried like this, it will kill him. He’ll go into cardiac arrest and die. 

 

“It’s ok, it’s not that bad, you can put me down-”

 

“Peter-”

 

“Steve I really don’t want anybody to see me getting carried like this, it’s ok, I c-can walk if you just help me a little, Steve-” 

 

“Peter.” 

 

Fuck. Fuck Steve and his authoritative tone. (Why does he like it so much?)

 

Peter freezes his wiggling and bites his lip to stop a pitiful whimper before it can escape his mouth. He kind of feels like he’s shaking (he’s definitely shaking) and he might be flushed pink all the way down to his chest. His hands feel clammy. He really, really doesn’t want anybody to see this. He also thinks that if he tries to identify and list all the reasons he doesn’t want to be spotted, he might throw up. 

 

“It’s fine, sweetheart. It’s late, nobody’s even around. You’re alright, Pete, look, we’ll be out and in the car in a minute. It’s ok,” Steve hushes. He kisses Peter’s temple and his voice is that even, low baritone that makes Peter relax despite his skyrocketing anxiety. 

 

He buries his face in the artist’s jacket (smells good) and groans.

 

(He’s not thinking about how Steve feels like pure fucking muscle and isn’t even breathing differently after carrying him.) 

 

“If anyone sees us, I’m gonna have a brain aneurysm.” He murmurs. Steve guffaws at that, and it sounds funny where Peter’s all pressed up against his neck and shoulder. 

 

By the grace of Peter’s non-existent guardian angel, they make it to Steve’s car without anyone spotting them. Well, Peter thinks a custodian in a cross hall might have, but the man didn’t bat an eye and didn’t appear to be paying attention, so there was some relief there. 

 

Peter tries at first to convince Steve to just take him home, but the older man isn’t having it. Eventually they compromise— Steve will bring Peter home long enough so he can pack a bag, and then the younger will spend the night at the husbands’ home. 

 

(The impending doom of overprotective Tony hangs over the smaller man’s head like a cloud.)

 

(Why is he so excited?)

 

Once they’re secured in the car and Steve shifts it into gear, pulling away from the curb in front of the building, the artist reaches one arm over across the console, cupping Peter’s face and rubbing his thumb over the boy’s cheekbone. 

 

“Care to tell me how you sprained your ankle?” He prompts after a few minutes. Peter shifts around, hugging his backpack, which is now in his lap, tighter to him. 

 

“I just fell down the stairs a bit.” 

 

Steve snorts. Peter glares at him, but the comical misfortune of that sentence threatens to tug the corner of his mouth from its firmly repressed grin. 

 

“And you managed that, how? Just slipped?” Steve continues. His hand is warm against Peter’s cheek and the smaller leans into the touch slightly. 

 

“Some guy ran past me and bumped into me, ‘n’ I stumbled.” says Peter quietly. Steve’s hand suddenly tenses. 

 

“He bumped into you? So hard that you fell down the stairs? Are you sure he didn’t push you? Because Peter, you don’t have to lie about that, you know-” 

 

“No!” Peter interrupts loudly, startling himself and quieting as he quickly continues, “No, sorry, no, he definitely didn’t push me, it was completely on accident.” He honestly should have seen that coming. The couple have always been protective and hyper-vigilant about Peter’s well-being (something that infuriates him and makes him feel guilty and also makes him feel incredibly warm and happy) but since a few weeks ago when Peter nonchalantly slipped a sentence or two into their conversation about his history with Flash Thompson bullying him— they’ve gotten even more solicitous. 

 

“Even if it was on accident, did he at least make sure you were ok?” Steve counters. Peter cringes. 

 

“Ok, technically not really, but he was in a hurry. He was obviously in a really big rush, that’s the whole reason he ran into me in the first place, and you know, you can get in a lot of trouble for being late to a lot of things so it’s not surprising if he already had places to be,” he explains defensively. It’s hard to be defensive when Steve’s fingers are pressure points on the back of his neck and head. 

 

“So some random guy runs into you, makes you fall down the stairs, and can’t spare even a few seconds to at least check that you’re alright? Peter-”

 

“Steve-”

 

“That’s not-”

 

“Steve.” Peter says as firmly as he can. The older man sighs loudly and flicks on his turn signal. 

 

“It’s fine, ok? I think you’re forgetting we live in the city, in New York. I mean, it wasn’t the most considerate thing in the world, but he apologized a bunch and it wasn’t, like, malicious or anything, and I’m fine. I thought you were a Brooklyn baby. Shit happens, remember?” Peter quips. He leans back in his seat and reaches up, running his fingers softly over Steve’s forearm before turning his head and kissing the base of the man’s palm. 

 

Steve just sighs again, pushing his hand further into the younger’s soft hair and scratching lightly. 

 

“Queens, honey, we really need to work on raising your standards in quality of people.” 

 

Peter laughs softly at that. 

 

“Yeah? So what happens when you and Tony don’t meet my standards anymore?” He smirks, partly because it feels easy and party because he really doesn’t want Steve to keep fretting over him. The artist fists a tuft of Peter’s hair, not pulling so hard that there’s pain but enough that Peter feels the tug, then drops his hand from the younger’s head to his upper thigh. 

 

“Then we’ll just have to step it up a little,” the older man grins, chancing a glance at Peter and giving his leg a squeeze, “Bold of you to assume we ever won’t meet your standards, though. I think you’re forgetting how good of a kisser I am.” He adds, smirking. 

 

“Maybe you should remind me, in a minute.” Peter says. He licks his lips and takes a small amount of pride in seeing Steve watch the action in the corner of his eye.

 

“In a minute.” Steve promises. He squeezes Peter’s thigh again and makes another turn. 

 

They fall into comfortably quiet conversation about their days and plans, and Peter relaxes more. 

 

So that’s one overprotective bullet dodged. Tony, though? Tony might actually freak out, and if he freaks out then Steve will freak out, too, and then they might wrap Peter in bubble wrap and lock him in a padded room, and Peter really doesn’t have the energy to explain that to May.

 

It’s not a terribly long drive from the school to Peter’s apartment complex. His anxiety is renewed when Steve pulls through the parking, flashing the card Peter hands him, and he realizes he can’t get up to his apartment without the older man carrying him. 

 

Steve, ever creative and considerate like the goddamn angel he is, comes up with a solution of Face-Timing Peter and going up by himself. Peter sits in the car, guiding Steve through what to grab and where to grab it from, flushing red and almost face planting into the dash when the artist spots the lacy pink underwear Tony got him to tease Steve with (what, that must have been two months ago or more by now, right?) in Peter’s laundry basket. 

 

“T-They’re comfortable, ok? Shut up, please shut up, please do not say anything, don’t ever say a word again or I swear to god I’m gonna die in your car, Steve _stop laughing_  oh my god please get out of my apartment, that’s it, there’s nothing else, we’re good, we can go now, _Steve_!” Peter whines, feeling embarrassment damn near literally setting him on fire.

 

His face and ears burn and he ends the call as Steve is leaving his apartment, and doesn’t uncurl himself from the ball he shrunk into until the older man is back in the car, setting the overnight bag in the back seats.  

 

“Ok, ok, I promise I won’t talk about it, baby. You’re just so fucking cute, you're adorable.” Steve’s still grinning but it’s kinder now and he rubs Peter’s back.

 

Peter groans and tries to punch him but the artist just catches his wrist and holds onto it, driving with one hand and keeping Peter’s arm pulled over, kissing the younger’s knuckles and palm throughout the ride to the Stark-Rogers house. 

 

Peter feels his stomach churn a little. Sure, Steve is almost as bad as May when it comes to fretting over Peter, but the last time he saw Tony while injured (a bruise on his cheek from his own goddamn hand, in the process of failing to put his backpack on quickly and smoothly) the man had kind of lost his shit. And that was a bruise. Peter seriously can’t _walk_  right now. 

 

“Um, Steve?” Peter begins, leaning forward to slip his backpack back on and twisting around, reaching to grab the bag Steve packed for him. 

 

“Yeah? You alright?” The concern in the older man’s voice is disarming. 

 

“Yes, I’m good, I was just, uh. Is- do you think Tony is going to freak out?” The smaller asks quietly. He hugs his bag to his chest and opens the passenger door, making to haul himself out before Steve crowds his space again. 

 

“No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe a little, but considering you’re in pain, I think it’ll be warranted. He was just getting off the phone with Pepper when I left, so. We’ll see what he’s up to, now.” The artist replies after a moment. He slips his arms under and around Peter once more, lifting him cautiously out of the car, careful of his foot.

 

(If Peter has to carry anything at all for more than a few minutes it’s like a workout. Steve’s- fuck- Steve isn’t even _tired_  what the _hell_.)

 

Steve makes his way to the garage door into the house, pressing a button for the automatic entrance to close. It’s loud but nowhere near as horrendous as some others that Peter’s heard, and he unconsciously curls in on himself as they head inside.  

 

“Hey, Tones!” Steve calls, toeing off his shoes onto a mat. “Hon, I’m home and I brought Peter.”

 

They walk (or, Steve walks) to the living room, just as Tony is coming out of the other hallway. 

 

“That didn’t take very long,” Tony muses, walking up to them and wiping his hands on a towel. “So what was that about being stuck at school?”

 

Peter tries not to openly cringe as Steve starts to set him down on the couch. 

 

“Actually…” Steve trails off, eyeing Peter with a look that says ‘if you don’t tell him, I will’. When all Peter does is open his mouth and struggle through trying to find the calmest way to say it, the artist takes over. 

 

“Somebody pushed him down the stairs-”

 

“On accident!”

 

“- and he sprained his ankle, and now he can’t walk on it at all.” He states, unfazed by Peter’s interruption. Tony just raises his eyebrows, looking between them, and then pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Um, Tony, listen, it’s-” Peter tries to start, but he’s cut off.

 

“Wait, wait, give me a second to be grateful you’re here and not hurt worse.” The engineer murmurs. A few seconds pass and Peter wonders how long it’ll take him to break through all the inevitable bubble wrap. 

 

“Ok, now what the hell, Pete?! No, fuck, ok, I take that back, this isn’t your fault, I’m just very concerned about the ‘can’t walk at all’ part of that. Somebody pushed you down the stairs?” Tony says not exactly quietly, walking back into the hall. Steve walks away also, but he heads for the kitchen. 

 

“Kind of but not really because it was an accident and I already explained this to Steve, ok, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, I’m over it. Shit happens, right?” Peter says quickly. He recycles the words that got Steve to drop it and almost stumbles through the quickly spoken sentence. 

 

“ _Shit happens_ ?"— disbelief—  " _Ki_ _d_ , if somebody pushed you down a flight of stairs and you can’t walk after, that’s-” 

 

“Unfortunate but an occupational hazard of being a living human surrounded by other living humans, and I told you, it was an accident. He was in a rush and he apologized a bunch and I’m not mad about it at all so please don’t freak out.” Peter cuts Tony off before the engineer can go off. He hears Tony groaning from the hallway.

 

“Ok, fine, I won’t freak out. But we need to take a look at your ankle to make sure it’s not something you should be going to a doctor for.” The engineer calls back. It’s pretty valid— not that Tony is a doctor by any means, but with his hobbies and line of work (and his history), he’s very well versed in home-diagnosis. Gauging the severity of bodily damage and knowing how to handle it are skills he learned on the job of… well, being Tony.

 

Except Peter thinks he might explode right now and wishes he'd argued more with Steve about just going home.

 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, ok, I’m fine, seriously, I just… can’t walk right now. It’s only been, I don’t know, less than two hours since it happened anyways, so I’ll probably be all better by tomorrow.”

 

“Two hours? I picked you up thirty minutes ago, max. Why did you wait so long to text me, Pete?” Steve says. Peter wants to groan again, but the older man’s voice doesn’t have a hint of accusation or irritation— just concern and maybe a little bit of hurt that kind of makes Peter sick. 

 

“Well I just thought I twisted it at first and needed to wait a while. I thought if I gave it some time I could just walk it off, and then I texted Ned and MJ too, but they’re busy and didn’t respond. Which, oh shoot, that reminds me, I should tell them I’m all good now…” The younger trails off, pulling out his phone and bringing up his chats with his friends again. They still haven’t seen his texts, but he shoots them both another message to tell them that ‘nevermind, got it figured out’. 

 

(He didn’t actually text them “SOS fucked up my foot need help”, just asked if they were busy, but he doesn’t want them to worry that they missed something when they do check their phones.)

 

Tony returns to the couch with an elastic bandage, just as Steve is walking back over, folding an ice pack into a thin hand towel. 

 

“So some kid pushed you and you sprained your ankle two hours ago?” Tony continues, sitting on the coffee table across from where Peter is on the couch. “We should get it wrapped before it swells up even more. Which ankle?” 

 

Peter pauses. Logically, he knows he needs to ice and wrap and elevate his ankle. Logically, he knows it’s probably bad enough that he should ask his aunt to drop off the crutches he used in high school when he messed up his knee. _Logically_ he knows that being taken care of is actually really, very far from the worst thing that could happen right now. 

 

But it’s _them_ , it’s Steve and Tony and there’s way too much concern between them, and it’s making Peter feel like an asshole when he could be doing all this himself and not bothering or worrying them, and he feels like a prick and then feels even _more_ like a prick when he realizes how much he likes being taken care of by them, and he’s kind of having a crisis now. 

 

“Tony, actually, you don’t need to do that, it’s fine, I’m ok, I don’t need it but I could do it myself, too, and I, it doesn’t even hurt that bad, ok? Really guys, I’m-” 

 

“Pete, hey,” Tony interrupts. His voice is doing the deep soft thing that makes Peter weak in the knees and he’s glad he’s sitting down. 

 

“I know you’ve got this complex going where you can’t accept help from people, and I’m going to be honest, I think there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours that you aren’t telling us, but Peter. It’s ok that you need help, sweetheart. Nobody’s mad at you for being hurt, nobody thinks you’re a burden, alright? I know you hate to worry people, so let’s try something different. You’re good. Aren’t you, baby? You like to be good for us, right?” The engineer says, and Peter goes on some kind of roller coaster of emotions through that little monologue but his brain damn near short circuits at the end. 

 

All he can do is swallow thickly and nod. He does. He always does. He always wants to be good for them, wants to please them, make them happy. He wants to be good. 

 

“Of course you do. Because you’re our perfect boy, aren’t you?” Tony doesn’t give him a chance to worry about whether he’s arrogant if he agrees with that before continuing. “So let’s appeal to that nature, then. We know you don’t want to make us worry, but when you refuse help and try to pretend you’re ok, that just makes us worry more. You don’t want us to worry more, do you?” 

 

Peter shakes his head quickly. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to make them worry, not at all, he wants to be good. (He can feel himself slipping. Where’s he off to? He’s not sure.)

 

“I know, I know, you don’t want to make anyone worry about you. And you know what would make us feel a lot better? You know what you can do that will make us not worry anymore?” Tony says, and he leans forward, grabbing Peter’s wrists from his lap and pulling them closer until he can kiss the backs of the younger’s hands. Peter looks at him with wide eyes and pink cheeks and he wants to know _so bad_  how he can make it better. 

 

“Let us take care of you. Let us help, baby, because when we can make you feel better, then we won’t be worried about you anymore. That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Tony finishes, speaking softly against Peter’s hands. Steve sits down next to him and wraps an arm over his shoulders. 

 

(It almost, but not quite, occurs to Peter that Steve could have easily told Tony which ankle was sprained, having spent the last half hour watching the boy favor his left leg, but that he’s waiting for Peter to open up to them.)

 

Peter breathes out a long, quiet breath. He wants to know when and how Tony got so good at finding loopholes with anxiety. He nods slowly, because it makes perfect sense, and wets his lips. 

 

“Left.”

 

Both Steve and Tony smile at him, something grateful and proud, and Tony squeezes his hands. 

 

“Good job, Pete. Thank you for telling me.” The older man says. “Now gimme,” he adds, leaning back, smirk restored on his face. Peter giggles and starts to lift his left leg, but doesn’t get far before Tony’s reaching down and grabbing behind his knee, scooting forward on the coffee table and resting Peter’s calf on his thigh. 

 

He rolls the smaller’s jeans up and slowly unties his shoe, carefully pulling off the sneaker and peeling away the sock. Peter winces as his shoe is slipped off, biting back a whimper. Tony catches it anyways and whispers an apology, holding his foot more delicately yet. 

 

Tony’s right. 

 

Peter’s ankle is really swollen, and a little red, and it’s throbbing more just looking at it. Oh, man, it’s throbbing a lot more the longer he looks at it, and it makes him squirm. 

 

“Shh, sweetheart. Just a minute and then we can ice it, and you’ll feel a lot better. Actually, hang on a second Tony— Pete, you wanna put on your soft pants first?” Steve soothes. Peter nods. He brought joggers with for comfy pants and sleeping, and he’d rather not have to try to take off his skinny jeans over the elastic bandage. 

 

Carefully, Steve helps Peter shimmy out of his jeans, Tony ever so cautiously slipping his sprained ankle out of the pants, letting Peter take off his other shoe and pull his good foot through on his own. The couple help him put on the grey sweatpants once he’s dug them out of his bag, and after sitting comfortably in the joggers, Tony adjusts his leg so they’re back in their previous position.

 

He wraps Peter’s foot and ankle carefully— practiced, calloused engineer’s fingers lifting and lowering and adjusting. The older man is attentive to how Peter tenses and sucks in sharp breaths when it hurts, relaxing when the pressure is right, and makes sure to get the wrap perfectly tight, though not too much so. 

 

Steve runs his fingers through Peter’s hair and kisses his temple as Tony finishes up the wrap. When he’s done, the engineer rubs Peter’s knee and grins at him, lifting his foot up and planting a barely-there kiss on his ankle. 

 

“There, all finished. And you’ll tell us if it hurts at all, right?” Steve presses. Peter nods, turning and pecking the artist’s jaw, feeling his stomach flutter a little at the gentle treatment Tony gives him. 

 

“Good,” says Tony. “Sit back and get comfy, will you? We’ll put some pillows under your foot, get it elevated.”

 

Peter hums in agreement and pushes himself into the corner of the couch, leaning against the back and the arm rest. Steve leaves him with a soft caress to his cheek, moving to collect two of the throw pillows and set them on the coffee table. Tony heads for the kitchen, and once he’s up, his husband tugs the table closer to the couch, helping Peter prop his foot up and arranging the ice pack over his wrapped foot. 

 

Peter sighs at the feeling of the cold and the tight bandage around his ankle, the throbbing sensation and sharp pains dulling down. 

 

Tony returns a moment later. He has a bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a glass of water in the other, dishing out one pill and letting Peter pluck it out of his hand. 

 

Peter downs half the water as soon as it’s handed to him and slumps into the couch. 

 

Steve slides back in next to him, stretching his arms out over the back of the sofa. Peter shifts until he’s pressed against the older man’s warm chest, and he watches Tony plop down on the other side, using Steve’s arm as a pillow. 

 

They turn on the tv and Peter and Steve take turns closing their eyes as Tony quickly flips through the channels, shouting “stop!” at a random time so nobody actually has to pick something to watch. They go through the process five times before settling on a cooking show. 

 

Peter makes it halfway through one episode until his stomach growls, and then Tony is up, heating up a leftover (well, leftover from the couples’ dinner a few hours ago) stuffed pepper for him. Peter eats it embarrassingly fast (“Are you even breathing?” “It’s really good, ok? Leave me alone.”), wondering why he thought half a can of tomato soup and toast was enough dinner. 

 

It’s late and maybe four or five episodes into the cooking show when Peter starts to get sleepy. 

 

He took another ibuprofen half an episode ago and they switched his ice pack for a new, freshly cold one when he did, and he doesn’t remember when Tony grabbed a throw blanket to toss over the three of them but he’s warm and comfortable and his foot doesn’t hurt at all right now. 

 

“How you feeling, baby?” Steve murmurs against his hair.

 

“Better. ‘m tired. Good, though.”

 

Steve chuckles a little at the sleepiness in the younger’s voice. “That’s good. And you know what? We feel better too. Because we know you’re ok, since you let us help you. I know that’s not easy for you, Peter, and we're proud of you for that. We’re happy you can trust us.” He continues. Peter nearly beams at that. They’re happy with him. That makes Peter happy. 

 

He feels warm everywhere other than his ankle, and it’s nice, and he drops his head onto Steve’s chest. 

 

“Thank you. Seriously, really, you’re both so nice to me, all the time, I honestly can’t thank you enough,” he mumbles. The couple understand him regardless, and Tony reaches in front of Steve to give a split second caress to Peter’s cheek. 

 

“You certainly come close,” Steve jokes. Peter giggles (somewhere in the back of his mind he decides close isn’t good enough and he should thank them even more). “I’m kidding, sweet pea, you thank us plenty. Definitely more than what we need. It’s not hard for us to take care of you, baby. We like it. We _like_  being good to you— not that you don’t deserve people being nice to you regardless. That’s why we do this, why we’re like this. We _like you_ , Peter.” 

 

Peter has to bite his lip so he doesn’t, fuck, he doesn’t even know what. Whine? Cry? Both? Spontaneously combust? He doesn’t _know_ , he just knows that Steve’s words make him feel whole and full of everything good and also cold and empty and it’s incredible and he hates it and he sort of wants to hit himself in the face with a brick. 

 

“I like you too. A lot. Probably too much.” He says it like a joke so they won’t know it’s true. 

 

Steve and Tony just laugh softly, and Steve kisses his hair again. 

 

“You can go to sleep if you want, angel. We can carry you to bed,” offers Tony. Peter hums. 

 

“Mmm, wanna stay with you.” He whispers. Steve’s arm moves off the back of the couch and wraps around Peter’s shoulders, tugging him a little closer. 

 

“That’s ok. We’ll stay with you.” The artist says gently. 

 

Peter just grins and closes his eyes, snuggling up against the man. 

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Ok.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so part two will hopefully be coming soon, thanks so much for reading babes, I hope you liked it !! <3
> 
> p.s. I changed the last chapter "It Takes Two" a little bit, so it's... physically possible now. Whatever, that's a thing.
> 
> p.p.s. things I learned today: 1. “Lemon” can sometimes refers to love/sex stories (pretty exclusively in manga, I think?) and now my username that I thought was fresh and original is just a sex joke and I kind of love it. 2. Fanfiction has created a language all of its own, with a lot of phrases and linguistic patterns occurring frequently and exclusively in fics, and I was looking through the listed examples and wow do I use a lot of them, and now all I can think about is how if I ever finish and publish a work of contemporary literature, my (definitely highly fanfiction-influenced) writing style will transfer and linguistically tuned people will probably be able to tell that I’ve written fics. The link I was reading from is https://allthingslinguistic.com/post/153880615951/a-deadletter-ademska-reliand if you wanna check it out. I thought it was Pretty Neat


	13. Light As A Feather pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The part where Steve and Tony are a bit less protective, Peter is a bit less hurt, and they all have a thing for Steve's upper body strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually these chapters have some kind of intro/lead-in to the porn but this one really doesn’t. Consider pt. 1 the ‘lead-in’. Apparently I can’t decide if I refer to Peter as a boy or man in my writing, we’ll figure that out eventually, maybe I’ll fuck around and edit this later. 
> 
> Thanks for reading babes, hope you like it <3 
> 
> notes/warnings: Peter still has an injured ankle, fucking standing up (if that’s something to warn about?), some hurt/comfort, size/strength difference as a kink, more submissive headspace, uhhh spoilers for ‘Star Trek Into Darkness’ (2013) ?

Peter sleeps on top of Steve and Tony that night.

 

He’s pretty much diagonal across them, face nuzzled into Tony’s shoulder and good leg tangled with Steve’s, his wrapped ankle flung off to safety away from their bodies. 

 

When he wakes up before either of them and somehow manages to get himself out of their jigsaw mess of limbs, scooting carefully to the edge of the bed and freeing himself from blankets, he ends up having to hop lightly on his sock-padded good foot, braced against the wall, to get to the bathroom. 

 

He’s leaning against the counter, hovering over the sink after washing his hands when there’s a knock on the door. Steve grins sleepily at him from the bedroom carpet and he lets the artist carry him to the living room, halfheartedly telling himself it’s just so he can have his shirtless torso snuggled up against the older man’s bare chest. 

 

The rest of the day is similar. 

 

Peter being, for the most part, too tired (unsure if it’s more physical or emotional) to even attempt refusing help and accepting the extra attention with a soft smile and quiet thanks. He snuggles up into Tony’s embrace while they binge watch half a season of “Parks and Recreation” and slips one of his hands under the waistband of the engineer’s pants, if only so he can flatten his palm against the older man’s waist and melt at the added skin-to-skin contact. 

 

Tony playfully (though so gently it kind of tugs at Peter’s heart) lifts the younger over his shoulder and deposits him at his usual spot on the counter when they make lunch, and gives him a ride on his back to return to the sofa. 

 

When the couple decides to go out for a run, Peter occupies himself with listening to the Broadway cast recordings of his favorite songs from “Be More Chill” and doing sit-ups on the floor in front of the couch. He only does a few and does them leisurely, because he doesn’t actually want to make himself sweat or need to shower before getting home tonight, but it helps with the steadily growing antsy feeling he has. 

 

The husbands decide to continue working out when they get home, something Peter for the life of him can’t bring himself to be mad about. Not with the air running, some high quality deodorant, and good old fashioned distance to make sure the smell of sweat doesn’t reach him, while also allowing him to shamelessly admire the way the husbands shirts, getting progressively more damp, cling to their chests and shoulders in the nicest way. 

 

Peter doesn’t even realize he’s staring at Tony’s ass until he notices the man is staring back at him. He makes eye contact and only blushes after Tony makes a quip about him drooling. 

 

“I could totally out lift you,” Peter jokes, eyeing the weight in Tony’s hand (it can’t be more than twenty or thirty pounds, if it’s just the casual stuff they have at home). Tony snorts. 

 

“I’d like to see you try, honey.” 

 

“Maybe I will.” Peter lifts his chin defiantly at the engineer, but his face reads playfulness

 

“Not today you won’t— not until you’re all healed up.” Steve interjects. Peter rolls his eyes dramatically. 

 

“Buzz kill,” he scoffs, but he smiles and laughs when Tony snorts again. 

 

Things start to spiral around the time he lays on the couch, all the way to one end so he can drape his legs over the armrest and swing his feet, talking somewhat animatedly with his arms. 

 

“I love the original series but when Kirk died in Into Darkness? I cried.” He says, nodding his head against the pillow he has under it.

 

“You cried? But they saved him in the end,” Steve replies. The man is laying a short distance from the sofa, pausing on his Peter-doesn’t-know-which push-up to look over at the younger. 

 

“Well yeah, but for ten minutes of screen time there he was _dead_. And he and Spock did the Vulcan salute to each other, and acknowledged that they’re friends, as he _died_ , and, it was _sad_ , ok?” Peter argues. 

 

“Mhm. I suppose it was a _little bit_  sad.” It’s because Steve is actually a massive softy that Peter glares at him for the mock empathy. 

 

“‘A little bit sad’.” The smaller repeats with a huff. He rights himself on the couch and pushes off the cushions, using the sofa and the coffee table to hop over to Steve.

 

“It was very sad.” He states with feisty certainty, punctuating his words by sitting as firmly and heavily as he can on Steve’s back, hoping to make the man fall the few inches to floor from where he’s holding himself up.

 

Only Steve doesn’t move.

 

( _Hot damn_.)

 

Barely even shifts at the sudden weight of Peter dropping himself cross-legged on the artist’s back. 

Peter loses his brain for a moment and his eyebrows shoot up in something like awe. He wipes the look off his face, the moment Steve turns his head to see the small boy, smirking all smug and annoyingly handsome. 

 

“Whatever you say, baby.”

 

Peter’s expecting a snarky remark to usher him away, or maybe even for one of the husbands to try and guide him back to the couch, but after a few seconds of the boy not moving (not knowing if it’s because he’s stubborn or impressed), Steve just— 

 

He just starts doing push-ups again. 

 

He just. Fucking. 

 

He just starts cranking out the push-ups, his breathing and grunts of effort the exact same they were before Peter plopped down _on top of him_ , and, holy shit— 

 

Peter… does not know how to process it. 

 

“Oh my god, are you- are you just-? Oh my god-” he rambles, in honest shock. “How are you doing that?!” 

 

Steve just laughs, breathless with the energy he’s using to work out, and keeps moving. 

 

“A little impressed?” He says cheekily. Peter can’t even call him out on the cockiness though, because he’s right. Peter is impressed. Holy shit.

 

Steve’s just _doing_  it. He’s so goddamn strong. Peter knew this, of course, he’s known since the first day he met the couple that both of them are athletically inclined. There’s no way someone’s shoulders get that broad or arms that thick (it would be suicide to fantasize about Tony’s biceps while he’s already in awe of Steve; but there he goes) _without_ working out. But. _Jesus christ_ , he’s _still going_. 

 

He’s just. He’s just doing push-ups like having a whole entire human on top of him doesn’t make it so much more difficult. 

 

(Like carrying Peter around so much yesterday and all day today has been nothing.) 

 

(Holy _shit_ , it goes over Peter’s head most of the time, because usually the manhandling is accompanied by sex or subspace and it’s nice but the smaller doesn’t really pay attention to it. But Steve and Tony, they just. They just _move_  him like he’s _nothing_  and why the _fuck_  is that so hot?!) 

 

Peter’s going to have a stroke. 

 

“You’re just- oh my _god_ ,” he gapes.

 

“Don’t act so surprised, you’ll hurt my feelings,” Steve jokes. Peter barely comprehends the words.

 

“You’re… you’re so strong,” the younger says quietly (reverently)(a bit jealously, too, perhaps).

 

Steve laughs again and lowers himself all the way down to the floor. Tony laughs, too, getting up from where he was doing crunches and walking slowly over to Peter. 

 

That shouldn’t be so hot. Why is Peter so attracted to that. He’s going to have a stroke and a crisis, probably at the same time. He thinks he’s having them now. 

 

And he probably is, because he realizes with horror that his dick is also interested in the display of strength, and his cheeks turn cherry red as he clambers quickly off Steve’s back, fumbling to get back to the couch and put the pillow that was under his head onto his lap. 

 

“Think so, huh?” Steve muses, sitting up and running a hand through his damp blond hair. Peter wants to run his hands through it, too. 

 

Tony strolls up in front of Peter casually, that infuriating(ly attractive) smirk on his face as he kneels down on the couch in front of the boy. The smaller had crisscrossed his legs as soon as he sat down, careful of his wrapped foot, and now Tony runs his hands slowly up from Peter’s ankles to his knees. 

 

“Did you not know how strong he is, sweetheart?” The engineer asks lowly, fingers pushing against skin until he can grab Peter around his upper calves, pulling them down so his legs have to unfold, dragging them to either side of Tony’s body. Peter gulps and tries as subtly as possible to push the pillow down harder on his lap. 

 

(Thank God he’s not fourteen anymore or something, or he would be completely hard already. But oh _hell_  is he getting there.)

 

“What d’you think? You like it?” The older man continues. He grins and licks his lips and Peter has to suppress a whimper, because of course he’s not subtle at all. Tony seems to take particular joy in slowly running his hands up Peter’s legs, over the fabric of his joggers until he’s pushing under the pillow and grabbing the boy’s upper thighs, digging his thumbs into the divots of the boy’s hip bones. 

 

(Horny bastard.)

 

Steve makes his way slowly over to Peter, grinning at him somewhere between sweet and sultry, wetting his bottom lip before drawing it between his teeth (looking at Peter like he is fucking _edible_ ). Peter almost chokes on his own spit as the artist peels his shirt off. 

 

( _Mother of god_.)

 

“Do you want to see just how strong I am? What we could do to someone as small and pretty as you?” asks Steve with a criminally deep voice. 

 

All Peter can do is swallow thickly and nod. 

 

Tony gives another squeeze to Peter’s thighs and pulls away, standing up and taking a few steps back to make space and tug off his own shirt. As Tony moves, Steve strides forward, standing in front of Peter. He leans down and gently guides the boy’s legs towards his waist. 

 

The younger takes the hint and reaches up to grab bare, muscled shoulders, so that when Steve’s hands slip under his ass and haul him up, he clings to the man. 

 

They’re kissing as soon as their faces are close enough. Peter runs his fingers through blond hair (hell yeah) and whimpers at the responding squeeze to his ass. He winds his legs around Steve’s waist, hooking his ankles with his sprained one on top, braced on his good foot and the curve of Steve’s back to keep it steady. 

 

He took more meds maybe twenty minutes ago. It’ll be fine. 

 

The artist walks them out from between the couch and coffee table, into the clear area of the living room. Peter can feel Steve’s bulge against him and he tries to grind down on it a little, but before he gets very far there’s another set of large hands on his waist. 

 

Tony nibbles on his ear, licking the shell and pressing a kiss to the base of the boy’s neck. 

 

The engineer’s fingers are surprisingly, welcomingly warm when they tug Peter’s joggers and boxers down. The older man pushes the elastic waistbands and works blindly with Steve’s hands to get the offending pants off the smaller’s pert ass. They leave the clothes bunched up at Peter’s thighs where they couldn’t get them any further off anyways unless Steve put the small boy down. 

 

Which. Unlikely. 

 

The younger man doesn’t remember hearing any drawers opening, but Tony must have dug into the end table while he was busy kissing Steve, because there’s a wet, rapidly warming finger touching his entrance a moment later. 

 

He jumps against Steve at the sudden touch and sighs into the kiss, one of his hands digging into the man’s shoulder. Tony’s other hand is under one of Peter’s thighs, helping hold him up. The lubed finger circles his hole slowly and gently, until he’s relaxed into the sensation and arching his back to push against the digit. 

 

He can feel Tony’s breathless laugh where the engineer’s chest is flush with his back, and he gasps, biting his lip when the man pushes his finger slowly inside. 

 

“God, you make the prettiest little sounds, angel,” the engineer hums as he works the digit past the boy’s tight rim. 

 

Peter’s never, ever going to get used to this (and _god_  if that doesn’t sound great). It’s always strange and weird and too much and not enough, like his body forgets what the intrusion feels like every time. Every time it’s a breath-taking stretch, a delicious burn that makes him feel hot all over and pink in the cheeks. 

 

Every time his mouth waters like he’s starving when the first finger slowly pushes all the way inside. When it twists a little, giving experimental tugs against the tight force of his hole as it clenches instinctively, like it’s trying to keep the digit in. 

 

Tony knows exactly what he’s doing at this point (he’s known since, probably, the fifth time they slept together, if Peter’s honest). He knows exactly how to brush against Peter’s prostate when he pulls his finger all the way out, and he knows how to curl the added second finger into the sweet spot on re-entree. 

 

Peter doesn’t need to feel the smug grin pressed against his shoulder to notice that Tony takes a particular sort of pride in knowing the smaller body so well.

 

He’s well aware without the pleased, short-winded chuckle Tony lets out that the man enjoys himself when he quirks his fingers in places he’s mapped out blindly, bends them when he’s sliding in and out so his knuckles catch on Peter’s rim, grinds the tips and flat pads horribly gently into just the edge of the younger’s prostate— always earning the sweetest little gasps and full bodied quavering from the boy. 

 

The engineer stretches him open fast, messily, with excess lube dripping out of his hole. It gives Peter the strangest sensation of a cold trail dribbling towards his balls and dripping off him. The older man strokes the boy’s insides on every push and drag of his fingers, adding a third when the stretch still stings, but the cold lube and the heat radiating off the shirtless couple make up for it tenfold. 

 

The fucking _heat_. 

 

Peter’s sweating through his t-shirt for sure, even as Tony hikes it up his body, keeping it securely clustered up at his armpits by having the boy crushed completely between the two husbands. Steve and Tony’s torsos are so hot and firm and smooth against his own, the hair of their chests and stomachs almost tickling Peter’s creamy, sensitive skin. He drops his head back against Tony’s shoulder and the couple take it as an opportunity to kiss each other. 

 

They slot their mouths together right next to Peter’s ear and he can hear every obscene sound coming from them, can hear the lewd noises of Tony fingering him open— his own strained breathing littered with choked back whimpers as the glide of Tony’s calloused fingers makes him dizzy.

 

The engineer’s hands leave him for a few seconds suddenly and Peter whines at the loss, at the feeling of being wet and open and dripping onto the floor with nothing to fill him up. He hears two short chuckles in response, and Steve kneads his ass in compensation, breaking the kiss with Tony to nip at Peter’s chin where his head is still tipped back. 

 

The younger man misses the shuffling sound of clothing, but he feels the blunt head of Tony’s cock against his hole, wet with precome and lube and _so_ _hot_  and dignity be damned, he moans with want. 

 

For some reason (that is almost definitely because the man is a tease first and a human person second) Tony doesn’t enter him right away. He touches the pink ring of muscle with his tip, pushes enough for Peter’s hole to start to spread open for him, then backs off, and he keeps doing it over and over and Peter whimpers needily into Steve’s temple, as the artist drops his head to suck at the base of the younger’s neck. 

 

“Tony, come on, please, wanna feel you-” Peter starts but cuts himself off with a groan, biting his lip, craning his neck to mouth at Steve’s throat as Tony presses in. 

 

“That’s it baby, oh _fuck_ , fuck, you’re so tight like this Peter, holy shit, feels so good, sweetheart,” the engineer moans. He bites Peter’s shoulder over his cotton shirt and continues to press in, now both of his hands holding under Peter’s thighs. 

 

“Ah, nngg f-fuck, T-Tony,!” The smaller babbles. He pants for breath and _shit_ , Tony’s right, this position must be making him tighter for reasons he doesn’t have the brain power to contemplate, because it feels like Tony is splitting him open. Air catches in his throat and his lungs force him to cough through the process of Tony bottoming out just so he can breathe. 

 

The couple always feel big when they first get inside him (probably because they _are_  big, because they have large dicks and sometimes it feels like Peter’s body flat out refuses to relax enough to loosen up properly) but the younger is trembling already, probably bruising Steve’s shoulders, shaking his head and whimpering through choked-off attempts at getting oxygen, burying his face in the artist’s neck. 

 

“Come on, Petey, breathe baby, relax. There you go, you’re ok, you can take it,” coos Steve. His voice sounds rough and he lets Peter brace his sweaty forehead against his collar bones so he can press the boy impossibly tighter between himself and his husband, catching Tony’s mouth for more kisses. 

 

The sound of their mouths together is far away to Peter’s ears. His belly seizes up and his thighs tense and he tries to stop himself from clenching down even tighter but he _can’t_ , and it feels like Tony’s cock is up in his throat, suffocating him. It’s making him feel faint and rigid and it hurts but it’s sososogood and he feels so fucking _full_. 

 

The engineer doesn’t move any more once he’s inside Peter completely. He doesn’t push up any more and the husbands hold the boy steady, and while they kiss, the smaller just breathes. 

 

It takes a while before Peter isn’t coughing or panting for air, and he swallows thickly, blinking away the tears that already started forming in his eyes. He gives himself a few more seconds after he’s adjusted, just to gauge how much of his head he still has together. 

 

It’s… not a lot. 

 

Whatever. He doesn’t need coherent thoughts anyways. 

 

It’s that idea that has him moaning quietly, muffled against Steve’s skin, and trying to push himself against Tony. 

 

The husbands get the message. They let him down just a little bit lower, to the point where Peter feels completely, perfectly _impaled_  on Tony’s cock, and then the engineer is pulling out, slipping his hips away. 

 

He moves until just the head is still inside Peter’s hole and thrusts back in. It’s not too forceful of a snap and it’s not too quick but he nails the younger’s prostate and maybe the boy wasn’t as adjusted as he thought because it’s overwhelming all over again.

 

"God, yeah, that's it Pete," Tony rasps.

 

Peter moans without a care in the world for how needy and erotic he sounds, biting gently at Steve’s collar bone and releasing his iron grip on the man’s shoulders so he can wind his arms around the artist’s neck. He gasps as Tony pulls out again, hips rocking expertly back inside and repeating the actions. 

 

The engineer builds a rhythm and Peter is so fucking hard he’s going crazy. His boxers and joggers are confining where they’re still covering his front, his cock trapped inside the fabric. The underwear is damp and getting wetter as precome leaks steadily (thanks to Tony’s movements), and the way Peter’s jerking and grinding forward, Tony oscillating them both so the boy’s sensitive tip catches and rubs against moist cotton, is making him woozy. 

 

Little gasps and moans slip past the younger man’s lips fluidly. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to, the noises being tugged right out of his throat by Tony thrusting into him. 

 

As the older man’s pace gradually picks up, getting a little bit faster and a little bit harder every time he slides back home, his husband is littering his neck and jaw in hickeys. Peter’s mostly down for the count at this point, still hiding his face at Steve’s shoulder, whimpering against the man. 

 

He can feel his saliva dribbling out of his mouth and wetting his lips and chin, smearing on Steve’s skin. He squeezes his thighs tighter around the artist’s waist, feels how the man’s fingers dig into his ass and hike him up, drop him down— how Steve bounces the boy on his husband’s cock. 

 

And _oh_ , that’s fucking _hot_. 

 

Peter moans like he’s wounded and starts bucking his hips forward, pushing back, finding his own rhythm to work with Tony’s so he can grind back on the man’s dick and grind forward into Steve’s stomach (his _abs_  holy _shit_ ). 

 

“That’s it baby, keep it up. I know you’re close, Pete, go on, make yourself come, you can do it,” Steve rumbles out. Peter whines and looks up with big, watery eyes, and Steve’s mouth is on his in an instant. 

 

“Like it, sweetheart? You like behind held up and fucked like a little doll, just like this?” says Tony. Peter feels the older man ducking his head to suck a hickey on Steve’s shoulder, one of his hands sliding around Peter’s waist, in between his and Steve’s bare stomachs. He cups Peter’s crotch through the bunched up joggers, a tight fit between bodies, and kneads his palm down on the boy’s covered cock. 

 

Peter cries out and Steve swallows up the sound. He kisses along Peter’s jaw and up, pressing a chaste little peck to his temple and nipping his way back down to the boy’s mouth while the younger nods his agreement (to Tony’s words, Tony’s actions, Steve’s actions, all of the above, Peter doesn’t fucking know— but he strongly agrees). 

 

Tony doesn’t touch him long, moving his hand back to lithe hips and round cheeks, but it was enough to get Peter on the edge. He bites his lip hard and squeezes his eyes shut, fingers digging into the back of Steve’s neck and jutting his hips forward against the man’s stomach. 

 

"Yeah- yeah, I know you do, perfect little thing, so good, such a good boy," Tony continues. Peter can't handle the praise.

 

His cock is all but screaming at him by the time he finally comes, orgasm rushing up through his belly and thighs, making him go stiff and weak, clenching down around Tony. He comes inside his boxers, flooding the underwear with his climax, trembling and mewling like a kitten. 

 

He falls almost boneless in Steve’s arms when it’s over, trying his best to keep hanging on so he’s not dead weight to the husbands, even though he feels cloudy and weightless in his body with the afterglow of coming. 

 

Tony picks up the pace. He groans and his fingers make bruises on the backs of Peter’s thighs that will match the ones Steve is no doubt leaving on his ass, thrusting quick and messy. His hips stutter and he turns his face in, dropping to mouth wetly at Peter’s cheek. 

 

The sudden excessive tight and sweet release of Peter’s hole as his body goes rigid and pliant must be something delicious to Tony, because he doesn’t last much longer. He pushes up as far as he can into Peter when he comes, moaning lowly, nearly clawing into the boy’s soft thighs. He presses as tight and close as he can, Peter feeling the man’s chest and stomach flexing against his back. 

 

Tony draws out his own climax, thrusting short and slow into the younger man until he’s finishing riding it out. Peter’s grateful that Tony stops moving just as the overstimulation is starting to ebb away to pain. 

 

They don’t move much other than breathing heavily for a few moments. Peter and Tony try to catch their breath after coming, and Steve tries to keep his composure after watching his husband fuck the boy between them to the point of coming in his boxers.

 

After a few seconds of cooling down the engineer slowly slips his cock out of Peter’s hole. He quickly replaces his length with two fingers, though, keeping the come and lube from dripping out of the still-tight entrance. His other hand leaves Peter’s thigh and trails between Steve’s crotch, the artist hiking Peter a little higher up, breath catching, before the boy feels more than understands that Tony is pulling Steve’s cock out. 

 

The younger man moans and his cock twitches back to life. His hole flutters around Tony’s fingers, body plenty interested in being fucked again (even if his lungs haven’t quite caught up) and the older man chuckles windedly, guiding Steve’s cock towards the rim stretched around his fingers.

 

“Just a second, baby, then Steve's going to make you feel real good again,” muses Tony. Peter moans and lifts his head higher to seek out a kiss (from who? Not important). He feels the blunt head of Steve’s cock dragging across the expanse of his bunched up pants before striking gold and hitting the smooth skin of his ass. Tony carefully brings his husband’s length to Peter’s hole, slipping his fingers out and replacing them with Steve’s tip, letting it lightly touch the small entrance. 

 

Peter doesn’t want to wait through the teasing this time. He’s pretty sure Steve feels the same.

 

He tries to drop himself down onto the artist’s cock even as Tony’s hands find the backs of his thighs again, and if Steve’s hold on his ass wasn’t bruising already (it was), it definitely is now. 

 

The older man groans and drops his head into the crook of Peter’s neck. His teeth find supple, pale skin and bite lightly, tongue edging out to taste and wet the boy’s shoulder. He lowers Peter slowly down onto his dick, and Peter gasps at the stretch and burning pleasure where Steve is just that little bit longer than Tony, opening him up and splitting him, filling him even more. 

 

When the younger suddenly realizes he’s been digging his nails into the artist’s shoulders, he startles and releases the pressure. Except in his pleasantly cloudy state that’s some combination of already fucked out and (at the very least verging on) subspace, he overcompensates in loosening his grip, and accidentally drops most of his weight. 

 

And he wonders, vaguely, detached, if him letting himself go was just an excuse— because he knows damn well that both Steve and Tony are perfectly capable of handling him, even as near dead weight— but when he suddenly releases his hold on the artist’s shoulders, he falls heavily onto Steve’s cock. The action forces the older man’s length what must be as deep as it can possibly go and both of them shudder, Peter crying out and Steve muffling an almost desperate moan in the boy’s shoulder. 

 

In a mix of releasing all his tense holds and the startle of suddenly being completely impaled, Peter’s hooked feet dislodge from the small of Steve’s back, and his sprained ankle bounces free for a moment. The movement sends a jolt of pain through his body and his surprised cry morphs into a hurt yelp that has Steve and Tony both freezing against him. 

 

“You ok, baby? Was that your ankle, you wanna be set down?” asks Tony. His voice is laced with concern and he starts to pull away from Peter, probably to check on the boy's foot, and Steve lifts his head, turning towards the younger's face. 

 

“Are you alright? Need to stop, sweetheart?” He questions. Peter shakes his head fast and whimpers, because it was a startle of pain but no, no no no, he doesn’t want to stop, and Tony’s moving away and Peter wants him to do the opposite of that, and he quickly fixes his ankle, leaning back like his body is trying to chase Tony’s. 

 

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m good, f-fuck-” neither the jolt of pain nor the sudden concern about Tony moving out of reach have done anything at all to dampen the fact that Peter swears on his life he can feel Steve’s cock in every single fiber of his body and he really, really wants to be fucked right now, “p-please don’t stop, don’t stop, T-Tony don’t-” he can’t string together a proper sentence, can’t verbalize what he’s feeling, because goddamnit he can’t _think_  right now, and the sudden influx of input to his brain makes him want to cry. 

 

Tony’s back in a second, hushing him, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. It’s a little easier since the boy leaned back when the older had pulled away, and the man pushes back in, trapping his arms tightly as he presses Peter firmly between himself and his husband again. 

 

“Shh, shh, ok, oh sweet thing, I’m not going anywhere,” the engineer cooes. He kisses Peter’s temple and Steve kisses the other once they realize the(ir) boy is alright, soothing the smaller from how he was suddenly overwhelmed. 

 

“Good to move, baby?” The artist asks after giving Peter a moment to grasp that Tony isn't leaving and they won't stop. The younger nods his head quickly. Yes. So good. So good to move. Please move. 

 

It takes him a few seconds to realize he didn’t say that out loud, and he hurries to speak. 

 

“Yes, yes, I’m good, we’re good, p-please move,” he rambles. Steve smiles against his face and kisses his cheekbone, licking and pecking kisses down the boy’s face and back to the base of his neck. He acknowledges Peter’s confirmation by rolling his hips up, and Peter damn near _wails_.

 

Steve’s angle lets him grind effortlessly into Peter’s prostate, lifting the boy and arching his hips back and then dropping the smaller again, thrusting forward, the effect having his cock dragging smoothly out and snapping back in.

 

Tony groans in Peter’s ear at the sounds coming from the two. Steve’s low groans and gravely grunts and the feminine moans Peter can’t stop from slipping out making some purely pornographic melody. 

 

The artist’s thrusts aren’t particularly rough, but they’re deep and the angle is sososogood and Peter’s fully hard again embarrassingly fast. His arms are tight around the older man again, elbows hooked over his shoulders so he can keep both of his hands tangled in the silky blonde hair. 

 

He can’t tell if it’s because of Steve rocking them against Tony or if Tony is rocking against them, but Peter can feel the engineer’s stomach rubbing against his back, his ab muscles dragging against his smooth, perspiring skin, and it’s fucking _hot_. Everything about this (about _them_ ) is hot as all hell and it’s really not fair. 

 

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter’s laughing at himself, because now he really won’t be able to walk, and he can’t blame that on his ankle.)

 

Peter’s shirt starts to ride up as an effect of Steve bouncing him. It was already at his armpits on the sides but it reaches his collar bones at the front, exposing his upper chest. And,  _oh_ , exposing his nipples to Steve’s chest. 

 

The pink buds have been hard and sensitive from dragging against his t-shirt for a while, but now they’re rubbing against Steve’s firm muscle and catching a little on chest hair and fuck, _fuck_ , it feels so good, Peter’s cock burns hot with the precome that gushes out at the sensation. 

 

"Shit, that feel nice, sweetheart? Yeah, go on, move against me, just like that, just-  _fuck,_ yeah. So good, baby boy, you feel so fucking good," Steve rambles. He arches his back a little, pushing closer against Peter, encouraging the boy to do the same.

 

Peter shudders and squirms and it feels like the juncture between his neck and shoulder will be one giant hickey by the time Steve’s done with it. A forceful snap of Steve’s hips makes Peter outright squeak and he buries his face in the man’s hair, cheeks burning. He doesn’t have the coherency to snark the artist even as the man smiles against his skin and he’s not sure if that pisses him off or turns him on more. 

 

Steve's cock feels heavenly. The irony is not lost on Peter, considering how downright sinful this is, but he feels high as the man fucks into him. It's so good, something so hot and thick moving so smoothly inside him, stretching and giving way and massaging his insides. It's like finally getting an insatiable itch, the soothing, hot relief that's like burn and balm all at once. Peter can't think straight, he can't think at all, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He feels  _so goddamn good_ and he doesn't want it to ever stop.

 

Gradually, one of Tony’s hands makes its way down Peter’s belly. It reaches the waist of his pants, but instead of momentarily palming him over the fabric, it slides inside. 

 

The smaller man moans, wrecked and needy, as Tony’s fingers slowly glide up the length of his cock. He feels the sparks run all the way up his spine. The pad of the engineer’s careful thumb works the ridge of his tip and his index finger teases the slit and Peter groans. He tries to buck into the hand, thrust up, get more friction somehow, but Tony keeps his touch light. 

 

Fingers ghost over the younger’s length and rub at the base, _caressing_  his cock and fondling each of his balls in turn. After too damn long of the terribly gentle touch, Tony starts to properly stroke Peter, and the smaller is too out of it to realize that doesn’t happen until Steve’s moans get more desperate and his thrusts a little more quick and forceful. 

 

Tony jerks Peter off lazily, but with a satisfying tightness and a hand that knows just when and where to rub and squeeze to make Peter melt into nothing but a pliant doll for Steve to fuck into. 

 

"You're so fucking good, Peter. For this, for us, fucking  _hell_ -" The artist moans.

 

Steve doesn’t last very long— but that makes sense. He _did_  hold Peter while his husband fucked the boy. 

 

Be it because Peter had to grow out of the overstimulation first or because Steve had to wait, impossibly turned on, or both, the older man comes first. He speeds up more and more, though he doesn’t go too much harder (not as rough as Peter knows he can), his hands leaving Peter’s ass to run up his back and around his waist. 

 

Together with Tony, each husband’s arm pulling the boy in opposite directions while their bodies press him tight, Steve holds Peter up with one arm as the other snakes behind him, trailing to his shoulder. He holds the boy closer, and Peter instinctively tries to squeeze his thighs and legs more to keep himself up— incidentally clenching down around the man's cock. 

 

The younger’s shoulder is soaked with saliva and littered with love bites and Steve’s hair is damp with sweat from his workout(s). Peter gasps and pants for breath, letting Steve’s hips thrust into him with abandon even as Tony jerks him off at a languid pace. 

 

When Steve comes, he grips Peter so close and so tight that it gets hard for the boy to breathe. 

 

(He doesn’t mind at all.)

 

The older man hammers into him three, four more times before he’s coming hard, filling Peter up with white. His body goes tense and rigid and he groans but it ends in a satisfied sigh. Steve kisses up Peter’s neck gently, a stark (ha) contrast to the biting hickeys from before, as he rides out his orgasm. Right about when he gets to Peter’s jaw and starts sucking another love bite, this one softer, Tony picks up his pace. 

 

Peter sighs in relief as the sensation picks up, and the pressure building in his belly, making his thighs tremble finally crests not long after. 

 

He comes forcefully and officially soaks his boxers (and this time Tony’s hand, too) with the release. He’s sure to have white stains inside the underwear, and maybe even his joggers, but he doesn’t care. Just lets his body go tense and all his muscles clench and arches his back against Steve’s body, throwing his head back onto Tony’s shoulder, holding tight at Steve’s hair (still not tugging) as his mouth falls open in a cry. 

 

He’s shaking when Tony slowly takes his hand out, and he doesn’t see but hears the man licking Peter’s come off his fingers. He doesn’t blush until Steve lifts his head and Peter watches as Tony slips one of the digits into Steve’s mouth, the artist sucking the pearly release off his husband’s skin. 

 

Peter swallows thickly when Tony pulls the finger out with a pop and brings his hand in front of the boy’s face. There’s still some come on his palm and little finger, and Peter doesn’t waste time tipping up his chin and slowly licking it all clean, even if his cheeks and ears burn cherry pink. 

 

(He tastes different than the couple. He wonders if maybe he’s supposed to taste more like them, but he won’t dwell on it. Or. Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll ask, later.)

 

“Fuck, baby,” Steve gasps. His eyes are trained on Peter’s tongue. 

 

“That’s it, angel. God, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect,” Tony says. He finally starts to back away from Peter and the boy doesn’t like it one bit, frowning and turning to him and not even registering the whimper that escapes his mouth. 

 

Tony smiles gently at him while Steve gives them a fond look, arms moving back down as his husband helps him pull out of the boy. Peter winces at the feeling, and even more at Tony pulling his pants back up, but he lets it happen because at least the man’s staying close. 

 

“I‘m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” Tony declares softly. He kisses Peter’s hairline and rubs his back as he continues. “How’s your ankle feel? Still ok, or do you need some more pain killers?” 

 

“Was that too much, honey?” Steve asks softly. He adjusts Peter in his arms and it takes the boy a second to remember that the artist is _still fucking holding him_.

 

He shakes his head and slumps against the man, kissing his collar bones. 

 

“Mmm, 'm good. was good.” He states quietly. The couple laugh lightly and Peter doesn’t realize they started moving until they stop. He opens his eyes (he closed them?) to see the bathroom and, yeah, even in his blissed out state, abandoned by the majority of his logical mind, he’s not super fond of the two orgasms worth of come and precome in his underwear right now. 

 

Not to mention the sweat. 

 

For the first time in Peter doesn’t know how long (was it twenty minutes? Or thirty? Longer? He can’t fucking tell), Steve sets Peter down. 

 

Or, he sets Peter into Tony’s embrace, the older man leaning against the bathroom counter. The engineer cradles him in his arms, peppering kisses to his face, whispering praises that make him giggle and blush and curl in closer. 

 

Steve turns on the bath and stretches his arms, shaking them out while they wait. Some part of Peter’s brain is already coming back to him, and he watches the man move before it actually hits him, properly, with proper understanding, that Steve just held him up that entire time. 

 

With Tony’s help, braced against the other man, but. 

 

With his arms. 

 

Not even against a wall or something, and not for just one round. Steve held him with just his arms for Peter-doesn’t-know-how-long, probably half of that time while also under the exertion of fucking the boy— all this _after_  working out for nearly forty minutes already. 

 

Just. 

 

Holy fucking shit. 

 

“S-Steve?” Peter prompts. He’s completely in awe right now, because normal regular humans who aren’t paid to be fit aren’t usually that  _strong_ , but for some reason he also feels like he needs to apologize. That. That can’t have been fun. There’s no way that was comfortable for him, surely. 

 

The artist turns to him with an open, fond expression, already stepping closer and cupping the younger’s cheek. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Um, a-are, are you ok? Do your arms hurt now? I’m sorry if your arms hurt,” says Peter softly. He reaches out to touch the man’s wrist, running his hand up to Steve’s shoulder carefully, like touching him might make it hurt. 

 

Steve laughs softly, surprising Peter, catching the boy’s hand and bringing it to his face to kiss it. 

 

“I’m perfectly fine, baby. My arms feel exactly the way they always do after a workout,” he says, winking. Peter blushes but smiles. 

 

“You too, Tony? Are you alright?” He continues, looking up at the engineer. Tony smiles softly at him, not answering for a moment, before suddenly attacking Peter with more butterfly kisses. 

 

“I’m perfectly alright, sweet pea. More than alright. I feel great, actually. Have I ever told you how much I enjoy fucking you?” The man jokes. Peter giggles and squirms at the onslaught of kisses, but he tries to gather up all his solid and serious thoughts together. 

 

“You sure?” He presses, looking between the two of them. He’d be sad if he made them too tired or hurt. “You held me up for… a long time.”

 

Steve and Tony just smile at him again, Steve rubbing his arm and Tony kissing his head. 

 

“We’re sure, Pete. You’re light as a feather, baby boy.” Steve muses, leaning down to kiss Peter’s nose. That satisfies the boy, and he beams at the attention, taking advantage of the couple’s faces being close to peck them both on their cheeks.

 

When the water is filled up enough in the couple’s rather large bath tub, Steve shuts off the faucet. Tony holds Peter while the artist carefully unwraps the smaller’s ankle, then pulls off Peter’s shirt and cautiously removes his pants and boxers. 

 

The younger blushes bright pink and squirms when the underwear come off. At the feeling itself; at the mess of come left behind on his soft cock; at the thin, sparse trails of ivory the clothing deposite on his thighs and legs as they’re removed; at the way he feels the couple’s come starting to leak out of him without fabric to absorb it; and especially at the way Steve and Tony watch it all so intently. 

 

He squirms when they don’t move right away, trying to curl in on himself, but before he can, Steve is leaning over him, bracing one hand on Tony’s shoulder and using the other to pry Peter’s thighs apart as much as he can with the way the engineer holds the boy. He slips his hand between the space he made and runs a finger behind Peter’s balls, rubbing soft circles at his perineum and then pushing one finger into his hole, just up to the first knuckle, to keep the come from dripping onto the floor.

 

“Such a pretty, pretty boy, made such a mess of your clothes, didn’t you?” Tony whispers in his ear, mouthing at the boy’s jaw. Peter blushes bright red and can’t stop himself from the mewling sound he makes when Steve licks his cock and thighs clean— wet, gentle tongue careful not to inflict pain on the over sensitive skin. 

 

"Just let us hold you up and use you, huh? Made us feel so good, little boy— guess we made you feel pretty good, too. Sweet thing," Steve adds lowly. Peter isn't sure if his face can flush more, but if it's possible, it does.

 

When Steve’s done, he pulls away and Tony carries the boy carefully but quickly to the bath. He steps in, lowering them both down into the warm water, and Peter thinks he might actually turn into a physical puddle. 

 

The water feels incredible and Tony turns him cautiously, letting Steve join them so the artist can arrange Peter’s legs, ever considerate of his ankle as he lowers the boy’s feet into the water at his sides. 

 

Peter relaxes into Tony’s chest, sighing and humming contentedly. He feels tired. Not to the point where he’d nap (ok, he might pass out in this bath), but any restlessness he was feeling earlier is gone. All the pent up energy and nerves he only half realized he was hoarding from not being able to move and from all his conflicted feelings about needing help have been— literally— fucked out of him. 

 

He feels tension leaving his body and closes his eyes with a dopey little smile. 

 

Tony washes Peter’s hair and Peter washes Steve’s chest, arms, and back, and Tony’s legs, and the couple tag-team at washing his body for him. The perfectly hot water and the smells of the shampoo and the gentle, delicate but firm way the husband’s not only wash but massage the fleeting tension from his body makes him feel satisfied to the core. 

 

When they’re eventually letting the water drain away, Tony slowly fingers the last of the come and lube from Peter’s hole. H e takes his dear sweet time, moving so lightly with Peter’s only half-online body that the boy doesn’t even really realize he gets hard before Steve takes him into his mouth, sucking him off fast but gentle, and then it’s over and Peter’s calming down again, Tony using a soft wash cloth to wipe him off once more. 

 

He’s almost unconscious when the engineer lifts him out of the water and into the towel Steve has waiting. He sits on the toilet, adamantly drying his own legs while the husbands dry off. Peter thinks they’re probably drying each other, but even with lingering subspace he strives for some small drops of independence. He’s working at his hair when Steve takes over, and then Tony’s back with a pair of boxers that are— oh, actually Peter’s, and a t-shirt that is definitely the older brunette. 

 

(Actually, it might be Tony’s or Steve’s. Peter doesn’t know, they both wear it pretty equally.)

 

(The point is that it swamps Peter and with his regular, Peter-sized boxers, his underwear almost disappears under the shirt.)

 

Tony carries him back to the living room once he and Steve are changed back into sweatpants. He sets the boy on the couch again and the room only smells faintly of sex and sweat, air ventilation and the big open space working their magic. 

 

Steve makes three cups of tea while Tony re-wraps Peter’s ankle, this time with a different elastic bandage, mimicking the position from last night by sitting on the coffee table once more. When he’s done, he lets Peter cross his legs and lean back into the couch, joining the boy on the cushion and welcoming him into an embrace.

 

Peter snuggles up under his arm, smiling at the laundry detergent and body wash smell and warmth wafting off the man. His ankle doesn’t even hurt right now. 

 

Steve comes back with the mugs of tea, and Peter takes his gratefully, whispering thanks and downing a few sips of hot liquid. 

 

(There’s plenty of honey in it— sweetened and exactly how he likes it, and he’s thrilled that Steve knows just how to make it for him.)

 

The artist sets his cup on the coffee table, though, and turns towards the mats and weights on the floor, and for one awful moment Peter thinks he might be going to workout again (and— not cuddle). He reaches out to catch the man’s hand, giving him unintentional but deeply effective puppy dog eyes, and making the artist coo as much as he swoons. 

 

“It’s alright, baby, I’m just going to put everything away. I’ll come cuddle with you two in a minute, yeah?” He explains. Peter sighs and his shoulders drop from tension in relief, and he lets go of Steve’s hand to crowd himself up against Tony again. The engineer laughs softly at his antics, but runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, scratching lightly, twirling some of the particularly curly strands. 

 

Steve joins them a couple minutes later, after everything has been put away. He sits next to Tony and Peter thinks that’s too far away, but before he can start to crawl over, Tony’s pulling him carefully into his lap. Steve helps keep his ankle up and out of the way as the other man grabs Peter under the arms and lifts him, dragging him over. 

 

Satisfied with being closer to them both, Peter shimmies around, getting comfortable in Tony’s space, turning to face Steve. 

  
“You’re the cutest thing in the world, you know? The cutest there is,” the engineer laughs. Peter scrunches up his nose at the compliment even though it gives him butterflies. 

 

“Sweet pea, you were so good for us, weren’t you? So good yesterday and today,” Steve adds. He picks up one of Peter’s legs again and lifts it a little, dropping his head and kissing up from his ankle to above his knee and back down. He repeats the action with Peter’s other leg and by the time he’s done, the boy is blushing and warm and verging on passing out, basking in the embrace and affection. 

 

It feels nice— sue him. 

 

“Lookin’ a little sleepy there, baby.” Tony says softly. Peter just shrugs. His voice doesn’t feel like working right now, but that’s ok. He doesn’t think he’ll fall asleep, but he knows if he does, then that’s ok, too. 

 

It’s all ok. 

 

Peter turns his face into Tony’s chest as Steve says something quiet about a movie. He keeps one hand on Peter’s knee, like Tony has one arm around his middle. 

 

(The tea really is perfectly sweet.)

 

Yeah. Everything’s ok now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter, Tony, and Steve have a size kink, send tweet
> 
> All my love to you, beautiful readers <3


	14. Pinned pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to think about things. Steve and Tony sort of figure it out before he does. It’s kind of amusing and kind of sweet and it ends in sex because when does it not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two-parter. This is as long/longer than some of my first chapters and we aren’t even to the smut yet. 
> 
> Remember when I used to update weekly? Yeah. me @ myself: what the hell happened to that 
> 
> Anyways I mentioned this is in another work so I’m sorry if you’ve seen it already but psa for fans of the collar full series: I’m starting a new job (that pays way better hell yeah but also) w/ 3x as many hours, and my next semester of classes starts on monday, which. I swear is all great and exciting for me, it’s just zapping my free time, so I guess we’ll just have to see what happens to my ability to regularly update content. But I decompress by writing this sin so once again: I promise I won’t abandon these works :D
> 
> Basically, it takes me eight lifetimes to write anything, my apologies, but I hope you like the chapter. Thanks for reading babes <3 <3 <3
> 
> notes/warnings: discussion of and set-up for light bondage (if that’s not your cup of tea just pretend these don’t exist), discussion of lots of different kinks (and I just looked up most popular kinks for things to include, so if you really like or dislike anything mentioned, pls don’t be put off by the way either of the three talk/feel about said kinks + psa that I only share some (not all) of their opinions, so. know what you’re getting into babes).

Peter’s been thinking. 

 

Actually, for about a week, he was trying _not_  to think about this particular thing. But then he realized things would probably be easier if he just got over his pride and denial and thought about it properly, and now that he’s started thinking about it, he can’t stop. 

 

It’s… weird. Isn’t it? 

 

He’s pretty sure it’s weird. Not like, _bad_  or anything. He’s not— he’s not shaming anyone or anything. It’s just. It’s not… normal? 

 

No. That’s not the right word. 

 

It’s just not…

 

Vanilla. Right? That’s what Tony called it. Regular sex that’s nothing more than people fucking, without anything particularly different or, um, _special_  about it. 

 

Not that plain sex can’t be special! It’s just, uh, nothing… _added_. There. That’s a better word. 

 

Vanilla sex is the sex without anything extra added to it. That’s what Tony told him. 

 

And this thing. This thing that’s totally not bad or a problem and he definitely wouldn’t shame anyone for it because Peter barely knows enough about ‘kinks’ to be able to ‘kink-shame’ anything and now he’s going on rambling to himself again— 

 

It’s not vanilla. Not completely. 

 

It’s nothing drastic or dramatic. It’s not huge or intense and he’s pretty sure that of all the different things people can bring to the bedroom, this one is one of the most popular. Or, well, one of the most well-known. 

 

It’s just. 

 

Peter groans and puts down his pencil. He can’t even try to think about “Macromolecules of Living Organisms” right now. His fingers go to rub at his temples as pure reflex and he sighs, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. 

 

The picture he gets behind his eyelids isn’t helpful at all.  

 

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s voice comes from behind his head

 

Peter almost startles. Almost. Instead he coughs and blushes and tries to hide both of those things by sitting up straight and hovering over his homework on the table, supporting his head with both hands and hoping Steve can’t see how red his cheeks are. 

 

“Nothing. I’m just thinking.” He says. Steve hums, walking around him and heading over to fill up a glass of water from the sink.

 

“What are you working on that’s got you thinkin’ so hard?” asks Tony. Peter hears him get up and move to the table, bracing one hand on the surface and one on the back of Peter’s chair, looking over the younger man’s shoulder. 

 

“Oh, uh, this is just some of my bio homework.” Peter explains. Tony can probably see his ears turning pink because the images flashing through his head just won’t _quit_. 

 

“Huh. I thought you had this chapter down, though,” the engineer murmurs, skimming over Peter’s open notes and textbook. The younger clears his throat and nods. He wishes he could imagine something gross and distracting, like his professor’s dentures or May’s first attempt at homemade spinach artichoke dip, but it’s hard to space out when the older man is breathing right at the crown of Peter’s head. 

 

“I do, mostly, I’m just— that’s not really what I’m thinking about.”

 

“Oh?” Steve interjects. He sits down across from Peter, water in hand, an eyebrow raised. “What’s on your mind, kid?” 

 

Peter wants to groan. What is he supposed to do? He’s so shitty at lying and the couple always see through him, always. Even irrelevant little white lies are pointless with them, let alone something nagging Peter so bad that _pertains_  to them. 

 

“Nothing really important, just. I dunno. Some stuff. It’s fine, I don’t really feel like talking about it.” And that’s the truth. Or, at least, that last bit is. 

 

Steve’s brows furrow in concern and Tony moves around to pull up the chair next to Peter. 

 

“You sure? You can always talk to us,” the artist offers. Peter cringes a little. 

 

“Yeah, I know. I’m fine, though. I’m good. Thanks anyways, Steve.” 

 

Neither of the older two look convinced. 

 

“Whatever you say, Petey.” 

 

* * *

 

The next week is tricky. 

 

Not only because Peter has to deal with the fact that it’s been nearly fourteen days and he’s _still_  thinking about this, but also because Steve and Tony are extra attentive and concerned. 

 

They probably think he’s hoarding some horrible secret and being too stubborn to come to them for help or confide in them. 

 

Which isn’t that far off, actually. Usually Peter can and does talk to the couple about things that bother him. Not too much and not all the little things, because he hates to bug them with irrelevant problems, but whenever he’s having an especially rough time, he typically will go to them for comfort and advice. 

 

This, though? This is not something he’s going to ask them about. 

 

Because he doesn’t even know what he thinks, yet. 

 

It’s just that— “Ow!” Peter yelps as he pricks his finger on the knife he’s cutting mango with. 

 

“Pete?” Tony asks, turning away from where he’s loading up the oven. 

 

“Just cut myself a little,” Peter responds a little guiltily. He’s way too distracted and he knows it, setting down the knife and going to rinse off his index finger. And there he goes, right back up into his head again, so much that he doesn’t notice Steve leaving or returning with a bandaid in hand.

 

The artist un-packages the bandage and Peter lets the man wrap up his finger with a slight flush to his face. 

 

“Thanks…” He says softly, hurrying to wash the knife he was using, if only so he doesn’t have to stare at Steve’s analyzing expression for too long. 

 

The older man watches him move between the sink and the counter with hawk eyes. Peter swallows thickly and pretends not to notice, thinking Steve will let it go the way he and Tony have every other time this week that Peter’s suffered the consequences of being preoccupied. 

 

No such luck tonight. 

 

As soon as he’s finished cutting the mango and the three of them are snacking on the sweet fruit, waiting for Tony’s “improved” ( _”Just because you took it apart and put it back together doesn’t mean you made it better, babe.”_ ) oven to make their dinner, Steve brings it up. 

 

“So what gives, Pete. What’s going on?” He asks gently. Peter freezes and almost chokes on a piece of mango. 

 

“N-Nothing’s going on. I’m good. What’s- uh- what’s going on with you? How, how are you, Steve? You doing alright?” 

 

Dumb. Fucking. Ass. Peter cringes. Steve humors him with a small grin. 

 

“I’m fine.” 

 

“Cool, cool. Um, Tony? You- ah- are you doing ok, too?” 

 

Tony raises an eyebrow, a very small and almost unamused smirk on his face. 

 

“Yep.” 

 

“Cool. Great. That’s good.” 

 

Peter’s going to throw himself off a bridge. 

 

“Seriously, Peter, and I say this with the utmost respect for you— you are the worst liar ever. Really, _ever_.” Tony says. He softens the blow by brushing Peter’s hair away from his face. 

 

“Uh… sorry?” The younger man is deflecting and they all know it. 

 

“Don’t be. That’s good, makes things easier for us. Pretty cute, too, watching you try.” Steve grins. Peter just nods, trying to think of a way to get out of this conversation without actually spilling his guts. 

 

“Now, for real this time. What’s up with you, kid?” Tony prompts. Peter doesn’t realize that he curls in on himself a little. 

 

“I don’t know what you mean?” He tries. It comes out a question and doesn’t fool anyone, and Steve sighs at the poor attempt. 

 

“Peter. You’ve been stuck in your head for the last two weeks. It’s obvious something’s getting at you, we’ve never seen you this distracted before. Today it’s cutting fruit, what if tomorrow you walk out into traffic or something equally or more dangerous? We’re worried about you, baby,” the artist says, and now Peter feels like an asshole and is also incredibly mortified. 

 

Steve and Tony are genuinely concerned about him, because he’s been up in his brain, thinking about— 

 

 _Why is this happening_.

 

Peter’s face burns and he thinks he’s going to pass out. They’re acting like something is actually wrong. Like something bad has happened or is happening, like Peter’s in _trouble_  or needs _help_. And while he appreciates the concern, this is the most horrifying and humiliating thing that has happened to him in a long time. 

 

Because it’s just— 

 

 _Hands_. 

 

Specifically, Peter’s hands. 

 

Even more specifically, having his hands held down. 

 

 _Fucking hell_.

 

The husbands have pinned Peter down by the hips and thighs, held his ankles and knees to keep his legs still, wrapped their arms around his waist and shoulders and manhandled him into whatever position they wanted.

 

And it’s all hot. It’s all really, really hot— Peter loves it when they make those little displays of strength, and it turns him on even more sometimes when they make him (or, alternatively, don’t let him) move a certain way, and the sex is always good but some of those positions are amazing. 

 

But nothing makes him feel the way he does when they hold his hands down. 

 

It’s not even that it gets him going like nothing else. Sure, it’s pretty hot and fun, in a twisted, sexual sort of way, to be held down like that. But it’s not because it gets him going that he likes it. 

 

It makes him feel… safe. In a way. Secure. 

 

The pressure and the firm hold are comforting in a distorted way, a bit, but mostly it’s just the final straw; the last thing Peter has real, excessive control over. He can always wiggle around and move his legs, but it’s nothing like the dexterity and range of motion and capabilities of his arms and hands.

 

It goes back all the way to their very first night together, Peter thinks. When he had a panic attack because he didn’t really know what to do with his hands. Didn’t know what Steve or Tony would like from him, wasn’t sure what they’d _want_  him to do with his hands. 

 

When they hold his wrists down— when they pin him to the bed and just take over, take what they want, make Peter feel good and use him to make themselves feel good, telling him what to do if they have to and otherwise just _taking_  what they need to enjoy themselves and be satisfied—  it’s like a weight gets lifted off his shoulders. 

 

He doesn't have to worry or even think about anything. His hands are the final piece, the last thing he has to figure out what to do with, and when the couple take that away, it’s like the puzzle is complete and he’s _free_  to do and think about and worry about absolutely _nothing_. Once his hands are out of the equation, all he has to do is feel. 

 

Yeah— getting pinned down is definitely a turn on for Peter. 

 

But when they hold his wrists down and take away the final obstacle; when Peter can surrender every last bit of control over to them; when he doesn’t have to worry about what to do to please them anymore and he can just go along for the ride, let them take over, let them lead him and make him feel good without him fretting about what he has to do to make them feel good too or whether he’s doing anything right or wrong; when he doesn’t have to think about anything and he can just _feel_  and know that the couple are taking whatever they need to feel good too— it’s _liberating_.

 

It’s cathartic. It’s a _relief_. 

 

They don’t do it every time and Peter kind of wishes they would and contemplating that brought him to the crisis he’s currently experiencing— which is if he’d experience the same effect from having his hands _tied_ , which he’s pretty sure is fucking _weird_. 

 

...Isn’t it? 

 

And that’s what he’s been thinking about. For the last two weeks, nagging at him, distracting him, making it hard for him to focus, soaking up all his time. 

 

The thing is, Peter doesn’t even know for sure if he’d like it. Having his hands bound or tied down. They’ve never done anything like that before. 

 

It’s always been Steve or Tony themselves pinning him; hands and people that read him so well, that know when to tighten and loosen their grip, know how to make sure he’s never uncomfortable. Mainly, they (almost always know before Peter even does when they need to) _let go_. 

 

Along with Peter wondering and worrying about how weird or ok it is to have his wrists tied, he has to wonder whether he’d even _want_  to, because for him, there’s kind of a big difference between Steve and Tony’s hands on his wrists, the two of them always paying attention to what they’re doing, and the unfeeling grasp of… whatever the hell they’d use to bind him. 

 

Basically, it’s a confusing mess that Peter’s spent the last two weeks thinking about, trying to figure himself out and figure out if and how he would talk to the couple about it, and now the pair think there’s some serious problem causing him trouble, and he has no idea how he’s supposed to explain himself. 

 

‘No need to worry guys, I’m perfectly ok, I’m just trying to gauge how kinky I am and I don’t have a definite answer but even if/when I do, I’m still not sure if I should tell you about it because I don’t want you to be weirded out by me!’

 

Yeah. Absolutely not. 

 

“Ok, listen. I-” shit. What is he supposed to say?! “I’m fine, and I know you won’t believe that because yeah, you’re right, I’ve been really distracted lately, but it’s not because of any- any actual problems. I really am completely fine, I’m just trying to figure out this thing, and I’d rather not talk about it with other, um, sentient human beings.” _Anyone capable of thought and therefore judgement, really_. “But I’m fine. I’ll try to pay better attention, but it’s, it’s not _that_  bad. I won’t go walking into traffic, I promise.”  

 

He fails at making it a joke and downs another piece of mango, hoping they drop it from there. 

 

He’s not sure it’s physically possible for him to blush any more and he’s almost definitely shaking a little as he immediately grabs a second piece of panic mango after the first. 

 

“Ok, well, if it’s not serious, then why can’t you talk about it?” Tony follows up. 

 

Shit. Peter could stress that he just doesn’t want to tell them and gamble that they’ll respect his space or get more concerned and press further. But the possibility of them thinking it’s even more of a problem when it’s something as _anomalous_  as what it is— Peter can’t handle that either. 

 

“Because… it’s…” shit shit shit “... personal…?” 

 

Oh, _that’s_  a good answer. Well done, Parker. Really. That’s freakin’ _fantastic_. 

 

His face is probably setting records for crimson. 

 

For a few seconds, neither Steve nor Tony speak. They look from Peter to each other and back to Peter and back to each other, and then Steve squints and Tony raises both eyebrows, and they seem to have some nonverbal, telepathic conversation. 

 

Which apparently comes to a nonverbal, telepathic conclusion, because they both turn to Peter with positively mischievous, barely suppressed grins of realization. 

 

 _Oh no_. That’s never a good thing. 

 

“Personal, hm?” Tony begins. He lolls his head from side to side, watching Peter closely. 

 

“Is it something with your friends? Your aunt?” Steve questions. There’s something heavy and knowing in his tone that makes the younger shiver and he swallows the lump in his throat, scratching the back of his neck. 

 

“Nope. They’re good, it’s all good.” 

 

“So is it with school? Or your job?” Tony continues. Peter shakes his head and grabs another piece of mango, trying very hard to act like he’s rapidly losing interest in the conversation. Except he’s fidgeting now, so obviously they can see right through him. 

 

(When don’t they?)

 

“Is your apartment alright?” Steve says. Peter nods and hums and oh god they’re going to run out of mango if this keeps up. 

 

The husbands look at each other again, and flipping between them Peter can see the corners of their mouths turning up. He never had any control of this conversation to begin with— of course he didn’t. 

 

“So, is it something to do with us?” Steve pops the question like it’s nothing and Peter tries really, really hard not to give away that it has _everything_  to do with them. But he always feels awful about lying so he never gets in any practice and he’s so nervous he might as well have just been telling the truth anyways. 

 

“N-No, nope, n-not at all, what-” nervous laugh, “why would, I- why would there-”

 

“Woah, woah, easy kid, slow down. You’re gonna hyperventilate if you keep that up,” Tony interrupts, cupping Peter’s cheek and making him look up. 

 

Peter shuts his mouth and doesn’t say anything. His brain is running a mile a minute and he doesn’t even know where it’s going. 

 

“Is everything ok here, Pete? You, if there’s something wrong, you can tell us, you know? If there’s something that you don’t like or we’re making you uncomfortable, you-” Steve is talking like they’ve done something bad and Peter finally gets ahold of himself to shut that down. 

 

“No, no no no, it’s nothing like that at all. You guys didn’t, don’t, do anything wrong, you’re amazing, this,” he gestures between the three of them, “is really great, I don’t- I don’t feel uncomfortable. I’m comfortable, yeah, no, nothing bad. All good things.” The rush becomes progressively less coherent but the soft smiles the couple reward him with mean they probably understood him anyways. 

 

“Ok, good, that’s good.” Tony sighs a short breath of relief that kind of makes Peter feel things in his chest. He just nods and takes another piece of mango, trying to slow down his breathing (because Tony’s right, it’s way too fast) and cool off his face. 

 

After a few moments of letting that little burst of tension settle, Steve steps slowly up to the table and stands beside Peter, a little in front of him, one arm around his waist and resting on the younger’s hip. It’s comforting until the artist starts to speak— and then it’s just hot and heavy and _distracting_. 

 

“So… it is about us? At least, partly, right?” 

 

Peter almost chokes on the mango. 

 

“Um, well, I mean,” nervous laughter is not a good filler and he should really come up with an intelligent thing to say right now. How on earth is he so bad at this?

 

“Peter,” Tony drawls, tugging the bowl of mango away from the younger. Peter leans and reaches after it, because as long as he has something in his mouth he doesn’t have to talk (which, _oh hell_ , nope, that’s not a rabbit hole he’s gonna go down while he’s having the fucking bondage crisis right now), but the engineer just pulls it further and adjusts the hand on Peter’s face to gently grab the smaller’s chin. 

 

“Are you hiding something from us, sweetheart?” 

 

The tone in Tony’s voice sounds terrifyingly self-assured and the way he’s looking at the younger makes Peter shiver. Oh god, do they already know? Is this one of those things where the couple realize what’s going on before Peter even gets a hint? Is he really that obvious?

 

“N-No, what m-makes you th-think that?” This whole conversation, probably. If Peter had to guess, he’d say this whole entire freaking conversation makes them think that, goddammit. 

 

Smooth. Real smooth.

 

Tony just smiles and then Steve is smiling too, those shit eating grins that make Peter unsure of whether he wants to throw pillows at their faces or jump the men. 

 

(Why do they have to look so goddamn sexy all the time?!)

 

“What is it? Come on, honey, tell us,” Steve’s whisper is right in Peter’s ear, the hand on his waist toying with the graphic t-shirt. 

 

“I-It’s nothing, really, n-nothing,” Peter mumbles. He’s just waiting for the sweet relief of the floor opening up and swallowing him whole 

 

“Either you can tell us or we’re gonna start guessing, baby boy.” Tony smirks. Peter just shakes his head, because he really, really cannot tell them about this, at least not _right now_ , and, _oh_. _Fuck_ Tony and his stupid sexy challenge-accepted-eyebrow-raise. 

 

“Fair enough. So let me start,” the engineer begins. He lets go of Peter’s chin and steps around the corner of the table so that he can stand right in front of the smaller, studying Peter’s face. 

 

Joke's on Tony, because his little intimidation move freed up the mango, and Peter is _not_  afraid to stuff his face with fruit to avoid talking. 

 

“Food.” 

 

“What?” Peter questions after he swallows, taking another bite as soon as he’s spoken.

 

“You’ve got a thing for food play. That it?” Tony clarifies. Peter almost chokes on the mango ( _again_ ), coughing and shaking his head. 

 

“Ok, lets see. What might Peter Parker be into. Hmm…” Steve wonders aloud. The younger man pulls the mango bowl into his hands and starts walking away from the table, heading towards the living room. 

 

The couple follow him there and he doesn’t have to look at them to see the playful grins they must be wearing. 

 

“Is it some specific sex toy?” asks Steve. Peter is shaking his head again when the artist wraps his arms around the younger’s waist, dragging him backwards to the couch. Steve plops down and takes Peter with him, the smaller making sure he doesn’t spill any mango with the jostling around. 

 

“I can’t imagine you as an exhibitionist, you’re just so shy, but voyeurism, maybe?” Tony prods, sitting in the recliner chair and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Peter shakes his head again, resisting the urge to argue about his shyness (it’s a wasted argument, anyways— Tony’s completely right) lest the engineer think he’s arguing that he _could_  be an exhibitionist. 

 

(Peter also spares a thought to how far he’s come in terms of sexual awareness. He knows _both_  of those words.)

 

“Hmm. We’ve been seeing you like this for months, I can’t imagine it’s going to be something we couldn’t at least get a hint of.” Steve says. His hands slip under Peter’s shirt in front and start to rub small circles on the soft skin underneath. It’s comforting in the way that it always is. 

 

“What about pet play? You always blush real pretty when we call you ‘kitten’,” the artist continues. Peter shakes his head again. A group of girls had come to school on Halloween dressed up as ‘sexy animals’, and while Peter can’t deny that they all looked really good with the ears headbands and exaggerated-innocent smiles, he also knows that he would look ridiculous like that, and his feelings about the nickname end there. 

 

He’s running out of mango. Fast. 

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I doubt you’d be in to any kind of pain or breath play, right?” offers Tony. 

 

“You’re not wrong.” He says. He’s seen porn before with choking and f- fl- fle- flo- (what was that word?)(whatever) _hitting_  and it just made him scared. Unfortunately for the BDSM crowd, Peter’s low pain tolerance is in a completely different ball park from things that make him hard. 

 

“What about more gentle impact play, though? Something like light spanking?” 

 

“Not after your awful ass-smacking competition.”

 

That earns him two self-satisfied smirks. 

 

“I got it— you’re in love with us. Feelings kink.”

 

Peter doesn’t miss a beat.

 

“You wish.” 

 

“Damn. What about… oh, oh I know,” Steve begins, readjusting his hold on Peter so he can lean around and look at the boy. “Skirts. Is it skirts?” 

 

“I thought we were talking about my fetish, not yours, Steven.” 

 

“Fair point. But there actually is something, then. You can tell us, Pete.” Steve gets softer as he goes on, his expression fading from playful to kind, his arms tightening a little around Peter’s waist. 

 

“That’s part of the relationship we’ve got here, remember? We won’t judge you or make you feel uncomfortable, sweetheart. That would be pretty counterproductive of our effort to help you explore your sexuality, wouldn’t it?” Tony elaborates. He leans forward and over the armrest of the recliner, reaching out to run a hand through Peter’s hair. 

 

The touch feels soothing, when isn't it, and it takes the student a second to realize he’s actually supposed to answer. 

 

“I guess, yeah.” 

 

Tony sighs quietly and looks at Peter for a while before speaking again. 

 

“So you’ll tell us what it is, then?” Steve asks gently. Peter tenses up again. He really doesn’t want to. 

 

“We can’t help you figure it out if we don’t know what it is, angel,” says Tony. The smaller just sighs, wiggling closer to Steve and pointedly not looking at either of them. 

 

He’s out of mango. 

  
“Not… right now.” He finally begins. “I just,” deep breath, “need to think about it some more.” He looks up and between the two husbands. “Is that ok?” 

 

He doesn’t want to disappoint or annoy them, but he’s just not _ready_. He hasn’t thought about it enough— hasn’t come up with a good enough conclusion. 

 

Thankfully, Steve and Tony both smile reassuringly at him. The artist kisses his temple and rubs Peter’s side, and Tony nods. He looks a little guilty (why?) when he responds.

 

“Yeah, baby, that’s ok. That’s just fine. You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready. You don’t have to talk about it at all if you don’t want to. Sorry, sweet pea, we just got carried away there. You never have to tell us anything you don’t want us to know.” The engineer punctuates his words by reaching forward and grabbing Peter’s hands, bringing them up to his lips and kissing each of his knuckles. 

 

Peter sighs in relief and content at the words and the gesture. He does know that; he just got overwhelmed. He tells the couple as much, then adds:

 

“I do want to tell you, I think. Just. Not quite yet.”

 

Steve nods and kisses his cheek, one hand leaving the younger’s waist to caress the other side of Peter’s face. 

 

“Alright, Petey. That’s alright.” 

 

The light kisses continue and slowly become heavier, messier, until Peter flips around to straddle Steve, making out with the older man while his husband leans over them and slides a hand into the younger’s pants. 

 

Peter’s in the middle of riding the artist when the oven goes off, and Tony curses the entire time it takes him to get their dinner out and make sure the house doesn’t burn down. 

 

* * *

 

The husbands don’t drop it, exactly. 

 

But they don’t bring it up again. Not seriously.

 

They continue guessing, but in an exclusively playful way. Yes, they’re technically still trying to figure out Peter’s secret, but they’re more content to wait for him to tell them. Mostly, they’re just trying to help the kid associate sexuality and aspects of their relationship and being able to talk about those aforementioned things with a fun, easy-going atmosphere— hopefully making Peter feel less afraid and more comfortable with communicating and admitting said feelings.

 

Over the next two weeks, they question Peter on quite an extensive list of kinks. 

 

Tony thinks to ask him about role playing while he’s studying for a test, and once in the shower Steve asks him if he has a foot or hand or other specific body part fetish. 

  
Both answers are no’s, just like most every other thing they bring up. 

 

Some, though, they actually try. 

 

The husbands test out a couple different sex toys, all of which are fine and definitely get them all going, but none that make Peter (literally or metaphorically) scream “hidden kink”. 

 

They dabble just once in the concept of orgasm denial, which they were curious about considering their experience in orgasm delay and the regular appearance of orgasm control in their sex lives. In the end, though, none of them (Peter least of all) particularly like the idea of Peter not being able to come at all, and that is crossed off the husband’s mental list of options. 

 

One night the couple try their luck with a blindfold. It makes their boy nervous, that much is obvious, to not be able to see what’s happening, but he doesn’t tap out at first. Later, though, he freaks out Steve and Tony half to death when he’s suddenly begging them to take the blindfold off. Luckily it wasn’t scaring him so much as he just really wanted to be able to see them and know what’s going on once he was in subspace. 

 

Peter apologizes profusely when it’s over for not keeping it on, swearing to them that it wasn’t that bad and that they could try again, but Steve and Tony bench the blindfold (at least for the time being). 

 

They had, at one point, jokingly asked about bondage, but Peter was deep in homework at the time and gave them an extremely distracted shaking of his head, so they dropped that one.

 

Except the more they think about it, the more they figure that that’s it.

 

One night of pinning him down by the wrists, which they’ve done plenty before, and suddenly Steve and Tony are bombarded with their own memories and observations of how much faster Peter relaxes and, when they get really intense, how much faster he goes into subspace when his hands are held down. 

 

Top it off with them being well aware of Peter’s nervous habits, fidgeting with his hands whenever he’s particularly anxious and how he’ll sit on his hands or sit with his palms pressed together, squished between his thighs— generally the couple seeing how Peter seems to not know what to do with his hands half the time and how he, in a way, “restrains” himself when he’s nervous, leads them to believe that’s it. 

 

That must be what he’s hiding. 

 

And since they’ve never actually tied him down, never used anything but their own hands to pin him, of course he wouldn’t know for sure. He’s probably worried that if he asks to try it then he could get freaked out and ‘ruin’ the experience for them.

 

Fortunately for Peter, there’s not a lot Steve and Tony Stark-Rogers _aren’t_  into, and there’s even less they wouldn’t be willing to try for the kid. 

 

And maybe fortunately or unfortunately for Peter, neither of the husbands have a lot of self control when it comes to the younger man. 

 

What better way to help Peter figure out whether or not he’d like having his hands tied than to test it out? 

 

So that’s what they do. 

 

On a rainy Saturday in the late afternoon, almost another two weeks after the couple figured out Peter is hiding something, the kid is laying on his stomach, stretching out on top of Tony like a cat in the sun. 

 

“Hey, baby,” Tony begins. Peter looks up at him with raised eyebrows, looking adorably half-awake and untroubled. 

 

“Steve baby or me baby?” He asks quietly, small smile on his lips as he stretches out one leg, then the other. Tony just laughs quiet and good-naturedly, and runs a hand through Peter’s soft hair. 

 

“You baby.” 

 

“Oh, ok. Whatcha thinkin’ about?” The small boy grins, reaching forward to trace shapes with his finger on Tony’s cheek. The engineer turns his face so he can kiss Peter’s hand, then shifts under him, shamelessly loving the way Peter’s whole lithe body moves with him. 

 

“Thinkin’ we could try something tonight. If you’re up for it,” He offers. Peter tilts his head to the side, curious and reminiscent of a puppy with his big brown eyes. 

 

“What kind of something?”

 

Tony just hums, twirling some of the boy’s curls and scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that has Peter’s head lolling off to the side, eyes drooping. 

 

“You’ll see. But first; we’re making dinner.” Peter perks back up at that, and yeah, maybe he’s more of a puppy than a kitten, the way the promise of food makes his hypothetical tail wag. Either that, or he’s once again been eating like a broke college student who _doesn’t_ have access to Steve and Tony’s kitchen whenever he needs a quality meal. 

 

( _"_ _Not everything I eat has to come from your house, guys.”_

 

_“Yeah, but our food is infinitely better than dollar store ramen.”_

 

_“Dollar store ramen is cheap, though.”_

 

_“We’ll feed you for free. Good god, what kind of college kid are you, refusing home-cooked meals?”_

 

_“I love home-cooked food, Steve, but not when I’m mooching off the two of you.”_

 

_“It’s not mooching if we want to feed you.”_

 

 _“It_ feels  _like mooching and that’s the problem.”_

 

_“The problem is-”_

 

 _“Can we talk about something else, please?”_ ) 

 

Peter pushes himself up off Tony’s chest and skips towards the kitchen, Steve trailing after him. They’re making a one pot dish in the slow cooker, something that’ll take a couple hours to be done. 

 

The couple haven’t told Peter yet what the three of them will be doing with those hours, but. That’s a discussion for after they’ve prepped the meal. 

 

While Steve is preparing the chicken, Tony cuts up potatoes and carrots. Peter is tasked with putting together the broth for the dish to marinate in and seasoning asparagus, jobs that don’t require him working with anything sharp or hot or otherwise dangerous. 

 

After the incident with Peter cutting himself while slicing fruit, and since they know now that what’s been distracting him is still on his mind, the husbands have been extra careful to keep Peter away from things he might accidentally hurt himself with. 

 

Naturally, cooking is the most potentially dangerous time for the boy, as carelessness in an active kitchen can end in worse cuts and burns. Steve and Tony are pretty sure that Peter’s picked up on their antics, the clever little thing that he is, but he hasn’t called him out on it. 

 

They’re going to keep doing it until he does. 

 

Or until they figure this out and get him out of his head. 

 

Though, if they’re right, tonight will probably end with the latter. 

 

Once Steve is finished with the meat, Peter pours the broth into the crockpot and the artist arranges the chicken. Tony adds in all the vegetables, making sure everything can marinate properly, then dumps in a serving of uncooked spaghetti noodles and shifts them so they’re soaking in the broth. 

 

Peter puts the lid on and Steve sets the heat and timer, and the three of them take their time cleaning up. 

 

Or, more like, Steve and Tony take their sweet time, because in between every single step of the cleaning process, they pause to give Peter kisses and touch him. 

 

The kid’s just _there_ , looking pretty and soft and always so fuckable, and there’s a rush that never quite calms at having him here, in their house, being domestic with them— what are they supposed to do? 

 

Steve ruffles Peter’s hair and when the boy swats at the offending hand, the artist catches him by the wrist and kisses his palm, working all the way up Peter’s arm to the sleeve of his t-shirt, then skipping to his neck. Peter gently pulls Steve’s face away and pecks him sweetly on the lips, only to slip away to finish putting leftover vegetables back in the fridge. 

 

Tony walks up behind the boy at the sink, once everything else is done and Peter’s rinsing off the last plate. He wraps his arms slowly around the younger’s waist, hands sliding under soft cotton and onto the smooth skin of Peter’s belly. Ab muscles that are more than barely but not quite obviously there twitch under the light touch, the kid’s stomach sinking in on a reflex. 

 

The engineer counts the boy’s ribs as he moves his hands up, mouthing at the crook of his neck. 

 

“What do you think, pretty thing? Want to see what we can fit in before dinner?” Steve offers quietly, his voice a low hum that Tony feels in his stomach, and feels Peter feel under his hands. The boy shivers at the subtle promise and innuendo, turning to face them both after he dries his hands. 

 

He’s doing that goddamn thing with those big eyes and slightly parted lips, when his cheeks flush with a shyness he might never get over, all open and ready and just waiting for the two of them to swoop in and take control. 

 

It drives the couple fucking _crazy_  and they want him, all the time, so bad it’s unbelievable. 

 

Peter nods in response and swallows, and Tony watches the movement like he’s never seen it before. He reaches up and gently traces his fingers along Peter’s neck, ghosting over the boy’s Adam's apple and stopping just under his chin, tipping his face up. 

 

He kisses softly at first, wanting to ease Peter into this. The sweet boy gets so overwhelmed so easily— they need to make sure he’s as calm and collected as possible (while still being plenty turned on, thank you very much) for when they offer him the new opportunity. They don’t want him to be too worked up and scared, but they don’t want him to be lucid enough to overthink it, and they still need him to be level-headed enough to make a decision he won’t regret (be it in two minutes or two hours or two weeks). 

 

The younger kisses back just as lightly, hands coming up to rest on Tony’s shoulders. He presses forward, just slightly, and Tony smiles into the kiss, fingers leaving the boy’s chin to wrap around his waist and pull him in all the way, other hand reaching out to Steve. 

 

His husband takes hold of him carefully, slowly guiding Tony as the engineer hangs on to Peter. They make their way to the bedroom completely un-rushed. They’re relaxed; there’s nothing to hurry for. They’ve got time. 

 

Steve sits down on the bed first, and Tony gently guides Peter into the artist’s lap while Tony sits down next to his husband. Peter twists around, straddling the other man and kissing him too, slowly, one hand trailing up to run through blond hair. Tony watches with a lazy, content smile, eventually pulling the collar of Steve’s shirt and kissing the man. 

 

They know Peter’s watching them with that look on his face, where the kid doesn’t even realize just how much he likes it but _god_  does he like it. It’s satisfying and an unneeded but definitely appreciated ego boost, knowing that their established relationship isn’t disparaged to a sexual fantasy for the boy but still gets him hot and bothered so easily. 

 

Tony eventually breaks away from Steve to kiss Peter again, hands finding the hem of the boy’s shirt and pulling it up. Steve “helps” (which is really just his hands trailing after the shirt as Tony pulls it off, the artist feeling up the boy’s slender torso) and kisses Peter’s jaw, nibbling on the boy’s earlobe as the engineer tosses the top away. 

 

For a while they just kiss. Hands rub gently along thighs and across chests, Tony dips his fingers into the waist of Peter’s pants and Steve does the same to Tony, Peter tugs at the seams of the husbands’ shirts until the older men give and let him “help” (in the same way Steve did) remove the clothes. 

 

Steve traces wide, slow circles on Peter’s back and Peter holds onto Tony’s shoulder, other hand still in the artist’s hair. The just kiss, sometimes venturing to neck’s and chests and cheeks but not getting very heated, only slowly increasing the intensity of the kissing. By the time all three of them are hard, they still haven’t gotten any faster or rougher than soothing touches and slightly messily making out. 

 

Tony pulls away from Peter’s neck, leaving a sizable hickey in his wake, and nods to Steve, who nods back. 

 

“Remember that we were thinking about trying something new tonight, angel?” The engineer reminds. Peter looks at him, eyes so fucking _bright_  in the dark room, and nods. 

 

“I’m gonna show you what it is, and then you can decide if you want to try it. Sound good?” Tony says quietly. Peter sighs softly and nods a second time. 

 

“Yeah, ok.” 

 

Tony smiles, pecking the boy’s forehead and pulling away. He leaves Steve to kiss Peter gently, slowing them down a little more even as Peter cups the artist’s jaw and neck to get a better angle. 

 

The engineer walks over to his dresser, pulling out what he needs. 

 

Theoretically they could get something actually made for this, but they don’t even know how Peter will react yet, so the two put a metaphorical pin on the idea and stuck with their original plan. 

 

The silk is soft and sleek and plain black, exceptionally high quality even if it isn't part of a tailor-made suit. It’s long, about sixty inches, though that’s average for the brand and Tony’s height. He picked one of the thickest and smoothest fabrics, hoping that’ll make it less likely to cut into Peter’s porcelain skin. Of course, he’s going to be very careful about tying it, anyways. 

 

Peter’s eyes are closed and he’s still kissing Steve, his hips rocking ever so slightly, when Tony turns to them again. He walks back to the bed at a just less than leisurely pace, letting out a long but quiet breath as he sits down. 

 

The younger breaks away from the artist, looking over to Tony. He looks between the engineer, then Steve, and back to the item in the darker haired man’s hand. His eyebrows raise up and Steve can see the understanding under the confusion, like Peter thinks he knows what’s going on, but he’s waiting for them to tell him for sure. 

 

Each of the husbands sighs softly and Steve holds Peter a little tighter, hands undoubtedly hot and heavy and comforting on the boy’s slim waist. 

 

Then Tony holds up the tie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably guess what's going to happen next
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading everybody, all my love to you <3 <3 <3
> 
> p.s. um so I’m 80% sure that the concept for this “Peter has a Thing and the husbands try to figure it out” came at least partly from a prompt that someone commented here months ago, and I really don’t have time right now to go through abt 150 comments (thank you all so fucking much for that by the way, I thrive, you lovelies make me thrive) to find it, so if it was you/ you know who it was, I would hella appreciate you letting me know <3
> 
> p.p.s. @ Sony + Disney: you’re making me Sad.


	15. Pinned pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmm pretty Uncool of my muse to awaken and motivation to *finally* return to me exactly when my schedule fills up 150% and my free time goes kaput for the foreseeable future. Whose idea was that. 
> 
> The only set up/ preamble to this is feelings and kink negotiation, basically, and then it gets right into the smut.
> 
> Also, I wrote this over the course of a week and a half, so I hope it's not weird/choppy. Also also, this is 11k + and I'm pretty sure that means I need a fucking intervention 
> 
> notes/warnings: light bondage, pretty hefty submissive headspace

_Then Tony holds up the tie._

 

Peter just stares at it for a few seconds. 

 

And then he stares at it for a few more seconds. 

 

He looks up to flip between the husbands again, scanning their faces for, well, he's not sure what. Answers, probably. Any sign of any negative emotions at all. 

 

Logically, the tie itself is completely nonthreatening. A length of soft looking black fabric with no intended purposes other than making Tony (or Steve, whose even is it?) look more professional. 

 

That doesn't stop it from putting nervous butterflies in Peter's stomach. He thinks he knows what's happening, but he needs them to say it, to tell him for sure, and until then he needs to stave off throwing up out of sheer sudden nerves. 

 

"I'm pretty sure you know what we'd use this for," Tony begins. He runs his thumb over sleek silk and Peter wishes the older man was caressing his face instead, offering more comfort. He clings to Steve's shoulders, just a little, trying to keep himself as relaxed as possible.

 

"We could try tying your wrists with it,” _holy shit_ , “We don't have to, Pete, if you don't want to try it then we won't and that is completely alright. But, and correct me if I'm wrong, this is what you've been thinking about, isn't it?" 

 

Peter takes a sharp breath and bites his lip. What the hell? What the _fuck?!_

 

"You- um, you guys, what- why do you think, how did you-" he stumbles through the words and tries very hard to keep his breathing regular because he's feeling a little bit overwhelmed. They know? How did they figure it out? Does this mean they aren't weirded out, though? But why, how are they so sure this is it? Is he- what is he supposed to say? Or do? 

 

Do they think he knows about this for sure- because he doesn't, he really doesn't, and if they think he's sure about this and then he turns out to be wrong and screws everything up-

 

"Peter, Peter, easy baby, it's ok. You're not that difficult to read, sweetheart. Once we started thinking about it, it just made sense." Steve says softly, hands rubbing Peter's back gently but quickly, palms flattening against shivering skin. "You're so nervous, kiddo, always so eager to please, you just want to be good and you're scared you won't do it right. And that's ok, Petey. It's ok to be scared, but we want to help you. We don't want you to be scared of us, sweet pea." 

 

Peter snaps up to look at the artist, already shaking his head. 

 

"No, no, Steve, guys I'm- I'm not scared of you, I promise I'm not. I'm not scared of _you_ , I'm just..." he trails off and bites his lip again. He's shaking a little in Steve's lap and when Tony sets the tie aside to scoot closer and wrap his arms around the younger, Peter all but melts into the embrace.

 

"I don't want to... to mess anything up for you guys. 'cause I, I'm not, I know we've done this plenty of times but I'm just always scared that every time is going to be the time where I screw it all up. And I stop worrying, I do, I stop caring once we, you know, get really into it and stuff but before that, and after that, I think about it and I worry about it and I'm _sorry_ , I'm sorry, I don't want to make things so complicated and be such a hassle and I don't want to, to weird you guys out over this or ruin anything for you, but I just thought- I was just thinking that maybe-" Peter shakes his head to cut off his own ramble, closing his eyes tight. 

 

This is definitely not the way he imagined this conversation going. On that note, he was never sure if this conversation would even happen. 

 

Tony picks up what he's trying to say anyways. 

 

"You thought it might help, baby, we get it. We _get it_. That's _ok_. It's not bad and it's not weird and you won't ruin anything if you learn that you feel differently than you thought you'd feel. And it's definitely not a hassle, angel, you are anything but a hassle. We'll never get tired of tellin' you, kid, we do this because we _want_  to." The implied _we want you_  feels heavier than Peter knows it should. "We want to do this with you, trial and error and all." 

 

Tony's voice is calm and soft, and he runs his fingers through Peter's hair and kisses the crown of the younger's head while Steve slowly presses his lips to Peter's cheek and neck. It calms him down, the words and soothing touches, and he nods against Tony's shoulder. 

 

"I want to do these things with you, too." He whispers. The couple continue to hold him and rub his back, leaving gentle kisses against his temples and face, soothing him until he's breathing all the way normal.    
  


Peter swallows thickly and pulls away, letting out a shuddering sigh and looking between the couple.

 

“I still don’t know. If I, if I’ll like it, or if it’ll be the same as when you guys do it, if it’s not actually you, ya know… holding me down and stuff…” he trails off and looks down, cheeks flushed red. 

 

Which actually just makes the pink darken, because looking down confirms for him that despite this little blip in the night, neither he nor Steve nor Tony have softened. At all. 

 

Right, right, Peter almost forgot. He’s really fucking turned on right now.

 

“That’s alright, honey. We can try it, and if you don’t like it, or if it makes you even a little bit uncomfortable, then we can put the tie away and go on without it. It’s not like it’s a bother to us to pin you down ourselves.” Steve tips Peter’s face back up and winks as he finishes, making the younger blush harder. Tony laughs lightly at his husband’s antics and pets Peter’s hair, his hand resting firm and grounding at the nape of the smaller’s neck. 

 

“What do you think? You wanna try it?” The engineer offers. Peter doesn’t respond at first. He stares at the tie, sitting on the bed next to them, for a few seconds, just breathing and thinking.

 

If there was ever a time or way to finally get his answers, to finally figure out for real what’s going on with him, then it has to be now. Besides, Steve and Tony said that if he doesn’t like it, then they can get rid of it and go back to them holding him down. What’s the worst that could happen?

 

( _Don’t think about that, Peter._ )

 

He can do this. 

 

It makes him nervous, everything about this makes him nervous, and not for the first time (probably not for the last, either), it’s that sentiment that makes his decision for him. 

 

He can do this. 

 

Peter looks up at Tony and slowly, not taking his eyes off the older man’s face, he nods. Tony smiles at him, all reassurance and _pride_ and a little bit of relief, too, it looks like. Steve mimics the grin and gives Peter a celebratory kiss on the cheek, nosing at his temple and licking along the shell of the younger man’s ear. 

 

It sends a shiver up Peter’s spine and he turns back to Steve, not having to seek out his mouth for long before he can kiss the artist.

 

They aren’t moving slowly or softly anymore. 

 

The kiss is heated, Steve’s tongue slipping past Peter’s lips, sighing lightly and pushing forward. He wraps his arms tightly around Peter’s waist and drags the younger closer, until their waists are flush together, and they would be pressed against each other if Peter wasn’t leaning away, back arched where Steve won’t let him get too far. 

 

He puts his hands on the older man’s chest and slides them up, ghosting over the skin of Steve’s neck and cupping the artist’s jaw as they kiss. Peter gets so swept up in it so fast, he almost doesn’t notice Tony grabbing the tie again. 

 

When Steve pulls away for breath, fingertips against Peter’s sternum to hold the boy back, Tony swoops in, stealing a quick kiss from the younger and whispering against his lips. 

 

“Lay down now, baby.” 

 

Peter nods again, breathing shaky. Steve helps him get off the artist’s lap and he crawls towards the middle of the bed, turning to face them again. He starts to lean back but gets distracted by the way Tony is folding and unfolding the tie in different places, getting it how he wants it in his hands, preparing to use it on Peter. 

 

Steve sees him watching and advances over, kneeling next to the younger and putting a hand on his chest again. The older man slowly guides him down and Peter lets himself lower, until his back hits the mattress and he takes a deep (if unstable) breath. 

 

Tony crawls over him and before Peter can even ask how they’re doing this, the engineer is straddling his stomach. 

 

“Hands.”

 

The request is something soft and authoritative, a gentle guidance and a command that makes Peter’s skin break out in shivers and a shudder runs through him, settling in his spine. He wets his lips and swallows the lump in his throat before he can start choking on nothing, then lifts up his wrists. 

 

Tony smiles at him like the goddamn sun and Peter melts just a little more. But then the engineer takes hold of his wrists, moving them down, stretched far above Peter’s body at the headboard of the bed, and suddenly the younger can’t breathe again. 

 

The older man takes his time. He wraps Peter’s wrists slowly and meticulously, winding fabric through one of the few large, hard, elaborately decorative wooden panels that makes up the wall of the headboard. It’s helpful that they’re using a tie and not a belt or something else, so there’s plenty of material to fit around the wide piece of wood and wrap Peter’s wrists securely, while still giving him enough give on both sides so his hands can rest comfortably. 

 

The position the engineer takes to work leaves his chest barely above Peter’s face, and he splits his attention between watching what’s going on and exploring Tony’s torso with his eyes, as if he hasn’t already memorized every scar and mark. 

 

When Tony’s done, he sits up and tells Peter to test it out a little. 

 

The silk is smooth and feels kind of nice around his wrists, not too tight so that it hurts but not loose enough for his hands to slip out. The fabric is cool and soft, and Peter can twist his hands around to grab the length not around his wrists, tugging a little to see just how securely he’s held down. 

 

He looks back up to see both husbands smiling at him, fond and a little devious. 

 

“Good?” Steve prompts. 

 

“Y-yeah. Good.” Peter says, breathless and nodding. He’s still not sure how this is going to play out, but right now— it’s hot. Yeah, it’s, it’s definitely hot. He can barely bend his elbows right now and he wiggles around to get more comfortable, only now realizing that he’s still wearing his pants, the tent embarrassingly visible from how hard he is. 

 

Tony smirks and wets his lips, eyes hooded and raking over Peter’s bound arms and naked torso, the waistband of the younger’s jeans low on his hips, prominent ‘v’ exposed. Peter can feel as much as he sees Steve and Tony’s eyes taking in the sight before them, the lithe body and expanse of soft skin laid out.

 

They’re staring down at Peter like he’s fucking _edible._ It’s making him feel warm all over. 

 

“That's plenty strong, angel, so,” Tony begins, one hand coming down to grab Peter’s chin, thumb running over his bottom lip before pushing past it and dipping into his mouth, “you can pull all you want.” Peter takes the thumb in his mouth, tongue cushioning it as he sucks lightly. Tony’s chest rises and falls slowly but dramatically, and Peter watches the older man swallow, watches his lips part as he stares down at the smaller. 

 

It takes a few seconds for Tony to snap out of it and pull away. Peter nips the tip of the man’s thumb as it leaves his mouth and the engineer groans, running a hand through his own hair as he sits back. 

  
“You’re a fucking vision, Pete,” he rasps out. A small grin makes its way onto Peter’s face in satisfaction. Tony’s messed up already. And _Peter’s_  causing it. 

 

Tony continues to move until he’s all the way off Peter, sliding down between his legs, pushing Peter’s thighs apart to make space. The older man’s hands rest heavy on Peter’s hips, rubbing slowly up and down his sides, light fingertips tickling Peter’s ribs and palms firmly caressing his stomach. 

 

Peter sighs and wiggles around a little more. He relaxes at the feeling of Tony’s hands on him but tenses in anticipation. 

 

Feather-light fingers touch down on his forearms and he looks up to see Steve. The man beside him is focused on the bindings, studying how the tie wraps around Peter’s wrists, touching silk and silky skin and mapping out the experience with his hands. 

 

It takes conscious effort for Peter not to whine for a kiss, and he almost decides to just pull the artist down to him before he realizes that he can’t. He can’t pull Steve into a kiss, and he won’t be clawing at either husband’s shoulders or carding his fingers through their hair or clinging to them later. He can’t try to pull or push them where he wants them when words fail, either. He’s always pliant and amenable to them, with a few cheeky exceptions here and there, but now he physically has no choice but to submit to whatever they want. 

 

(Of course, realistically, nothing happens without Peter’s consent and if he wants anything to change or stop, the couple will listen and comply in an instant. But _hypothetically_ , Peter’s kind of helpless to them now, and that’s kind of really hot.)

 

Peter never thought he’d be comfortable with being any degree of defenseless, let alone turned on by it. Anxiety and maybe even trust issues have made powerlessness a no-go for Peter in pretty much every shape and size. So this must be some type of testimony to how much he trusts Steve and Tony, blaring loud in his ears and and resting deep in his subconscious, because he is so, _so_  turned on right now. 

 

Even without whining aloud or otherwise acting on his impulse, Steve must be able to tell what Peter’s thinking. The artist meets his gaze and smiles, a grin that reaches the older man’s eyes, and he leans down, catching the younger’s mouth in a kiss. 

 

Peter deepens the kiss as best he can, his breath leaving him in gasps as Tony’s hands feel his stomach and chest, fingers inching closer but never quite touching his nipples, palms massaging his lower belly. Lips touch down just below his navel and Peter sighs into the kiss, hips unconsciously shifting up. He feels Tony smile against his skin and push down, pinning Peter’s waist firmly to the bed, before continuing to kiss gently and wetly. 

 

The older man’s tongue sneaks out, giving short, slow licks to Peter’s stomach, covering the younger’s belly with tastes and kisses. Steve bites Peter’s bottom lip and apologizes with a lick, moving to kiss along Peter’s jaw and down his chin, mouthing at a swan-like neck. The artist’s teeth graze supple skin and he leaves patches of saliva over Peter’s throat that mimic the small, gleaming wet spots his husband litters over the smaller’s middle. 

 

Eventually Tony’s hands slide lower. He hooks his thumbs on the younger man’s waistband and pulls down his pants and underwear in one slow go. Peter’s hard on is all too happy to be free, throbbing and flushed with glistening precome smeared across the tip. He moans lowly at the feeling and can’t seem to lie still, shifting his hips and curling his toes. 

 

“Pretty, pretty boy,” Steve murmurs. He latches down on the crook of Peter’s neck to suck a hickey that the younger _knows_  will be there for days. 

 

At least he has collared shirts to cover it. 

 

Not that he really wants to. 

 

There’s more shuffling sounds and Tony’s moves back to his spot between Peter’s legs, and Peter can feel bare hips against the sides of his knees so he knows the engineer took off his own pants as well. One of Tony’s hands finds Peter’s hips again, rubbing soothingly, while his other hand hooks around one of the younger’s thighs. He pulls Peter’s leg up and drops down simultaneously, bringing his lips to the smooth skin. 

 

The first sharp nip makes Peter jump and bite down hard on his lip to keep from squeaking. Tony just smiles against him, licking and kissing the spot, before moving a little higher and doing it again. The sudden pain of the bites followed by the hot, soft wetness of the older man’s tongue makes Peter’s head spin. 

 

Tony keeps it up, sinking his teeth into Peter’s sensitive thigh and alleviating with gentle kisses and lapping. Steve doesn’t give abrupt bites or gentle kisses, though. He’s the mediator with deep hickeys, knowing just how to nibble and just how hard to suck to make Peter’s entire body feel burning hot without getting on the wrong side of painful. 

  
Peter’s head falls back against the bed and he tugs again at his wrists like an instinct. His chest and stomach both rise and fall with the quick, faux deep breathes he tries to take, and he can’t help writhing slightly on the bed. 

 

“Squirming around like that might be pretty cute but it gets you nowhere. Tell us what you want, baby,” Tony says. Peter can feel the man’s smug smile on his thigh and he wants to sass the older man. Luckily (or unluckily), he still has the brain power right now to do so. 

 

“You’re the idea man, Tony, what do you think?” It’s sarcastic and a little biting and Peter can tell the cheekiness has amused both husbands, because he can feel Steve’s smile and Tony’s chuckle where they keep their mouths on his body. 

 

“I think maybe you’re just feeling too shy to say you want us to fuck you.” Tony quips. Peter buries a groan in his throat. He’s going to say another snappy thing just for spite’s sake when suddenly Tony’s mouth swallowing up his length. 

 

He cries out at the unexpected sensation and it turns into a moan as the older man immediately begins to suck and lave at his dick, tonguing at the head and taking him all the way down to the base. 

 

Tony bobs his head fast and hollows his cheeks, and Peter’s hips buck up without his consent. He lets out a stream of needy moans and tugs against the tie. 

 

Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops. The wet heat leaves and Peter whines at the loss as the pleasure is ripped away from him and his cock is left twitching with unsatisfied want. Tony pops off with a lewd slurping sound. 

 

"How you feeling, lovely? Doing alright?" He asks, jutting his chin and looking pointedly at Peter's wrists. 

 

“W-wha- no, yes, y-yeah I'm fine I'm good, but, don’t stop please don’t stop,” Peter begins, dazed. Tony just smirks at him, the smuggest look in history on his face. 

 

“Ah ah ah, I thought I was the ‘idea man’, huh? Why don’t you just let me handle this, baby boy, and let us give you what you need.” The engineer says, kissing all over Peter’s stomach and squeezing his thighs. He doesn’t let Peter get any more friction on his length and he groans in protest. Steve chuckles breathily against the younger’s collar bones and hums as he moves up to kiss Peter’s mouth. 

 

It’s a sloppy kiss without much finesse, just Steve’s carefully controlled want and Peter’s careless need. One of Steve’s hands props him up so he can hover more bodily above the smaller, and the other slides across Peter’s chest, feeling ridges and dips and the flat expanse of his torso. 

 

The artist finds one of Peter’s hardened nipples, tracing circles around the bud and gently rubbing over it. Tony kisses down the younger’s belly and hums in content at the soft sounds his husband wrings out of the boy between them. He dodges Peter’s cock and mouths at the thigh he hasn’t already littered in love bites instead. 

 

“Mmm, S-Steve, ngh- Tony, I-ah, p-plea-” Peter pants the moment Steve’s mouth leaves him. The older men just laugh breathlessly and continue to touch him teasingly lightly. 

 

Steve pinches the bud he was toying at at and Peter gasps, biting his lip again. The artist grins at the reaction, moving to whisper in the younger’s ear as he continues to pinch and prod at Peter’s chest. 

 

“Pretty boy, you feeling good? You want more?” 

 

Peter nods and whimpers, precome dripping down his length as Tony kisses up to his hip bones and the base of his length, licking lightly at the straining cock but not giving him nearly enough. 

 

“Just be patient, sweetheart. That’s it. There’s no rush. We’ve got time to spare, baby,” Steve coos, peppering kisses to the side of the younger’s face. 

 

Tony’s hands return to Peter’s hips, holding his waist firmly down so that when he leans over and gives a quick kitten lick to the top of the smaller’s length, he can barely jut up. 

 

With a grin that Peter can almost feel, the engineer starts to lap at his cock, slow, gentle licks up his length and over the tip. It’s too light and too little, and Peter wants more, his hips trying to buck up but not being able to overpower Tony’s hold. 

 

His cock twitches in want and he moans desperately, gasping for breath, pulling so hard at his wrists that the tie makes muffled thumps against the wood headboard. Steve chuckles into his ear and the man’s voice is so low and gravely that Peter feels himself leaking precome at the sound. 

 

“Think we got it right about holding you down, huh?” 

 

Peter just groans and Steve smiles, giving soothing kisses to his face and biceps and neck. 

 

They tease him for way too goddamn long before Tony finally, _finally_  grabs the bottle of lube. Even then, he doesn’t actually add a finger until he’s used up the first dip into slick doing nothing more than circling Peter’s rim and stroking his cock, adding wetness. 

 

The first finger barely hurts despite how pent up Peter is from the teasing. It seems like this is going to be one of the nights where they take their dear sweet time with every little thing so Peter can only hope that the couple are turned on enough not to last too long. He doesn’t know how much more of not-enough he can handle, and he’s pretty sure they won’t be helping him come tonight. 

 

He could always ask, but— he kind of doesn’t want to. 

 

Coming untouched is different than when his cock gets actual attention. More and less satisfying, under and overwhelming both. It exhausts him nonetheless, feels like the orgasm is always forced out of him, pleasure so sharp it hurts. Not derived from where he wants, not having the attention or touches where he wants them, but still so, _so_  good. 

 

That, and Steve and Tony seem to love it. Which makes sense, really. Peter would probably be pretty proud too if he could make one of them come without even touching their dicks. 

 

Tony stretches him slowly and thoroughly, unhurried as he pushes the first finger in. He twists and curls the digit and massages lube into Peter’s walls, coating his insides in wetness, moving so carefully, fast and slow where he needs to. The second finger is easy, the first having stretched him enough for it, and the two push deep inside him. 

 

The engineer adds more lube than necessary and judging by the way his other hand tightens on Peter’s side whenever he causes obscene wet noises from within the younger, he’s doing it fully on purpose. 

 

Three fingers burn a little but it’s barely anything in the scope of Steve starting to suck hickeys over his chest and shoulders. The artist plants one right over his nipple, leaving the bud swollen and dark red and aching so good. Tony’s hand is huge on Peter’s svelte body, covering so much of his stomach that he can pin the younger down easily. 

 

He holds Peter still and spreads the three fingers, worming them around, moving as deep as they can. The smaller is plenty stretched by the time Tony slows his motions back to teasing— pointlessly toying at the edge of Peter’s prostate for no reason other than his own enjoyment. 

 

Thunder crashes outside so loud and sudden that it makes Peter jump and squeak, which suddenly pushes Tony’s fingers against his sweet spot and draws a moan out of him next. Both husbands just chuckle and smile at him, leaving soft kisses and deep love bites. 

 

Steve puts his hand on Peter’s arm, running up and down the length of it in a soothing way, pausing every round to feel the silk tie around the younger’s wrists. That’s about the same time that Tony finally (it’s been _forever_ ) removes his fingers. 

 

Peter more or less registers the engineer wiping his slick covered hand on the bed sheets, but then Tony is grabbing his thighs and spreading them wide, shuffling forward. The younger can feel the man’s cock against his ass, hot and wide and _fuck_  Peter wants that inside him, he wants that inside him like half an hour ago. 

 

He has the urge to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders and hold the artist close, smell the cologne and shampoo and sweat on him as the man’s husband pushes into him, but for the umpteenth time tonight he realizes that he can’t— his wrists still tied securely to the headboard. 

 

“Ready, baby?” Tony asks. Peter nods, sitting up the best he can. He pleads with his eyes and prays that Tony just _fucks_  him already, because he’s dripping precome like a broken faucet and he wants this, wants it so bad. 

 

Tony just smiles at him, leaning around on the other side of Steve to peck Peter’s cheek. He kisses his husband as he moves back, and Steve follows him, keeping their lips pressed together. Peter watches Steve run one hand through Tony’s hair and grab (what looks like) gently on to the back of the engineer’s neck, tilting his head to get a better angle. 

 

Tony goes with it, kissing back wetly and holding Peter’s hips. Without much other warning, he lines up his cock and starts to push in. 

 

There’s always those first few moments, and Peter’s pretty sure it’s on purpose, where the couple move too slow and gentle as they enter him, and there’s a burn before his entrance finally gives way. But once it does, it’s a smooth glide in. Tony slips past his rim and keeps going, an easy but quick thrust into the plenty-prepped boy until he bottoms out. 

 

Peter moans and throws his head back, unable to hold it in. Tony’s dick is nothing like his fingers— it’s so much thicker and fuller, without the gaps and spaces and strange shape of three separate digits. Just one cock, filling him up, going deeper, moving smoother, rubbing and stretching his insides in all the right ways. 

 

The older man pauses for a few seconds, giving the younger time to adjust. He rubs Peter’s hips and thighs and stomach, still avoiding the other’s dick, but he doesn’t lean over. He’s kneeling with his back straight, the distance between his body and Peter’s (with the exception of where the man is literally inside the smaller) a gaping space that Peter wants to fix. 

 

He tries to reach up and pull Tony down, pull himself up, but he can’t. He tugs at his wrists and wonders if that’s the difference between the tie and the couple’s hands. When they pin him down themselves, they’re close, and they’re holding onto him, settling the need to cling to them. The tie, though— they can be as far away as they please. And Peter can’t do anything about it. 

 

That’s something he doesn’t really like so much, then. Noted. 

 

On the flip side, though, the satisfaction on Tony and Steve’s faces, the teasing arrogance when they say, “What’s the matter, honey?” and, “Come on, sweetheart, use your words, tell me what you want,” in response to Peter’s pitiful whimpering is pretty hot. And by hot, Peter would say that it’s really fucking unfair that the couple are so sexy when they’re being assholes and messing with him. 

 

So he isn’t the biggest fan of having that contact withheld. The concept of being helpless in this specific way, however— that’s still hot. Still hot. 

 

“Shh, just relax. Let Tony do the work, sweet pea, all you gotta do is lie there and look pretty,” Steve croons. He wraps his hands around Peter’s thigh and ankle, lifting and pushing until the younger’s leg spreads even further. Steve pulls until he settles the back of Peter’s leg along his torso, the smaller’s foot up at his shoulder. One of the artist’s hands rubs soothingly up and down his shin, venturing to his thigh, leaning closer to Tony, stretching Peter’s legs so wide that even with how flexible he is, he’ll be feeling this tomorrow. 

 

And the next day too, probably.

 

Steve goes back to kissing Tony and Peter groans at the burn of the position, panting, shifting and trying to get the engineer to move already. 

 

For once, Tony actually gives him what he wants. 

 

The first drag out is slow and experimental, like it always is, and the first thrust in is calculated, per usual. Adjusting the angle, adjusting the position, whispering praise and breathy moans as they get started. 

 

When Peter opens his eyes, unsure of when exactly he closed them, there’s a blurry sheen of un-shed tears that he has to blink away. He looks up and sees Steve kissing Tony’s shoulder, then turning his face so he can watch Peter with hooded eyes, cheek resting on his husband’s arm. 

 

Tony’s eyes are closed and he’s facing the ceiling, deep, breathy sounds escaping him. Peter whines, muffling the sound in his own bicep, squeezing his eyes closed again as the older man’s cock slides out and sinks back into him. There’s that instinctual clench, Peter’s body trying to keep the man in him and then keep Tony out, so that every thrust is a sequence of tightening and relaxing, having the sensation of fullness stolen from him and then being pushed past a limit.

 

The engineer doesn’t go too fast or too rough, but he’s deep and forceful with his movements, and he’s not particularly _slow_  either. His hips snap against Peter’s and make the smaller body lurch with each motion, Tony’s grip on his waist and Steve’s hold on his leg dragging him back to meet every new thrust. 

 

His length is smearing precome on his belly and he’s pretty sure there’s a few drops that have made their way into his navel. There’s throbbing and a deep flush taking over Peter’s cock, and he already wants to come, but the feeling of Tony fucking him is too good and he’s not ready to beg for release just yet. 

 

Peter nearly jumps when he feels a few fingers ghost over his thigh. He opens his eyes to see Steve, gaze apparently trained on where his husband is disappearing into Peter’s tight hole. The pink rim stretches beautifully around Tony’s length, giving and taking and dribbling wetness from the excess of lube. 

 

Steve runs his fingers through the thin stream of slick that’s dribbling down Peter’s ass, tracing back up to rub along the younger’s hole, feeling Tony’s cock slide past his fingers as he fucks Peter. Tantalizingly lightly, the artist touches the smooth skin of Peter’s exposed ass and thighs. He finds the younger’s perineum and puts a bit of pressure on it, rubbing small circles and stroking the spot with a back and forth motion that has Peter writhing and whimpering in under a minute. 

 

“S-Steve, fuck, I-” Peter can’t think anymore. He tugs at the bindings and where the hold was teasing, a reminder, a bit of an inconvenience before, now it’s grounding. He holds onto the tie wherever it’s not wrapped around his wrists and pulls, needing to put his energy and mind into _something_  before he goes insane with the way the couple touch him. 

 

Steve’s fingers come up just behind Peter’s sac but don’t actually make contact with his dick, rubbing back down and making fascinated circles around the place where Tony penetrates him. The whole thing makes Peter groan and arch his back, pushing down and up and twisting, trying to direct Steve’s touch where he wants it. 

 

“Easy, baby boy, do you really want to come so soon?” Tony chuckles, smiling even more at the whine Peter gives in response. 

 

“Yes, y-yes, I do,” he pleads. He bucks his hips up and opens his teary eyes again, though this time the furious blinking just spills a few salty drops that run down the sides of his face. Steve shakes his head and hums, the tips of his index and middle fingers pressing down at Peter’s rim, tempting and threatening like he might push them in alongside Tony’s dick. 

 

“Not yet, Petey. Be patient, remember?” The artist counters. He sounds way too self satisfied but Peter lost his ability to care right around the time Tony finally pushed that first finger inside him, so he just groans in protest and squirms some more. 

 

His wrists _burn_. He tugs and twists them, arms desperate to be loose, but there’s a subconscious contradiction in how light and easy he feels. He’s free of every responsibility, there’s no pressure, nothing at all he has to do but lay here and feel, give whatever the husbands want to take and take whatever they want to give him.

 

He thought it was a relief to be pinned down by the couple in the intimate way they always do. But this? 

 

This is fucking _therapeutic_. 

 

He lets out a shameless sob when Tony nails his prostate, and keeps up the mantra of feminine moans and choked-off whimpers as the engineer makes a habit to keep hitting his sweet spot. He starts to grind his hips in the most delicious way, so familiar and so _good_ , brand new in how hard it hits him every time they do it. 

 

He wraps his free leg around Tony’s waist and digs the lone heel into the small of the older man’s back, encouraging him to move faster, harder, _more_. 

 

Tony doesn’t, of course— he’s particularly fond of teasing Peter and dragging things out. But he does add a snap at the end of his thrusts, ramming into Peter’s prostate and forcing Steve to remove his hand so that Tony’s hips can slam against Peter’s completely at every powerful end to the gracious movements. Peter pants for air and bites his lip and his arms shake from how tense they are, how hard he’s tugging. 

 

It feels _good_. 

 

Peter was (thankfully) right, at least half way. Tony’s too turned on to last very long, and Peter can tell when the motions speed up that the older man is getting close.

 

He wants to feel it, he wants to feel Tony’s stomach tighten and his mouth gaping when he comes, he wants to feel the engineer’s entire body tense and go slack when he reaches his orgasm. 

 

“T-Tony, Tony p-please,” Peter whimpers. He opens his eyes again, trickling tears, his lip already bitten red and quivering, cheeks bright pink. His back arches up and down and he pulls at the tie, hoping with his cloudy, absent mind that Tony just _understands_  because he’s probably not super good at communicating right now but he just wants the man to _touch_  him. 

 

Tony gets it.

 

He stops kissing Steve’s jaw and leans forward, moving in a flash to drop himself over Peter. He hovers with both of his hands planted beside the younger’s head, one quickly moving to grip (not too tight, but firmly) at Peter’s soft, messy hair. The smaller barely sees Steve leaning down to suck a hickey on to Tony’s back, and he doesn’t hear the action at all after closing his eyes again, because the room is overflowing with his own sounds. 

 

Rain and distant thunder and wind and Peter’s needy moans, Steve’s growing sighs, Tony’s deep rumbling. 

 

Pleasure and content go bursting through the younger when the engineer lays almost on top of him. Labored breathing makes their chests nearly touch and Steve lets go of Peter’s other leg, so he can wrap both around Tony’s waist, keeping the man pulled as tight and close as possible. 

 

It’s probably a little difficult for Tony to properly thrust into him, but the older man makes it work. He gives shorter thrusts but rolls his hips and mouths at Peter’s jaw where Steve has already left hickeys. It feels so good, so right and good and Peter sees colors and stars behind his tightly closed eyes. 

 

Tony gets faster and his rhythm starts to falter and Peter knows the man is nearing the end now. He does his best to clench down, make himself tighter, use his legs to pull the man in as much as he can. It just makes Tony feel bigger inside him and punches gasps from his lungs, but it feels good. He turns his face to catch Tony’s mouth and the man kisses him, messy and rather uncoordinated, getting saliva on Peter’s chin and dragging his lips to the corners of Peter’s. It’s perfect and heavenly and Tony pulls away to bite at the sweet spot under the younger’s ear, moaning when it makes Peter’s body almost jackknife off the bed. 

 

“God, _fuck_ , Peter, you feel so good, so fucking good, perfect,” 

 

Steve must be able to tell that his husband is getting close, too. One of his hands worms it’s way under Peter, under the small of his back, fingers touching at his rim again. The artist traces circles and rubs the raw skin and it feels too good. That, and now Peter can grind against Tony’s stomach, the length and tip catching on Tony’s abs and ribs and the friction is _so good_. 

 

Neither husband lets him get away with it for long, though. Tony lifts his stomach away, though he brings his chest closer, and Steve sends all of Peter’s dwindling coherent thoughts out the window when two of his teasing fingers actually  _do_ push in this time. 

 

Peter cries out and lets out a shrill wail that’s disrupted by coughing, and he yanks too hard at his wrists and knows he must be giving himself some kind of fabric burn but he doesn’t really notice or care at all, because Steve’s fingers are up to the base right away, pushing stray lube back inside him and stretching him that much further. 

 

Goddammit, Steve’s fingers aren’t _small_  and Tony’s already so thick. Peter shakes his head but he’s moaning like he wants more (maybe he does), and he’s crying without holding anything back, breaths labored and quick and sprinkled with needy whimpers. He’s squeezing Tony’s hips with his thighs and clenching down in some counterproductive instinct against the added intrusion. 

 

Tony pulls just a little on his hair and bites his shoulder. He’s thrusting without finesse, now, just fucking Peter with the goal of getting off. Steve twists and pumps his fingers ever so slightly and the rough calluses are pushed so hard against Peter’s walls by Tony’s dick, rubbing and gliding and the sensations are so different and entirely perfect together. 

 

The engineer must be feeling the same way, because he starts to breathe faster and faster and thrusts a little harder yet and then he lets out a long, low moan. Tony’s other hand wraps around Peter’s back and pulls the younger flush against him, grinding through his orgasm, teeth definitely leaving marks on Peter’s neck.

 

The older man is hot and heavy and his body goes rigid above Peter. It’s satisfying and makes Peter impossibly hotter to witness, and he looks up at Steve with want as the man's husband spills inside him, hips twitching, breathing hard. 

 

Once Tony’s come down from his high, the artist pulls out his fingers. His husband stays inside the younger for a little while longer, but it’s no problem, and Steve uses the spare time to finally get rid of his pants. He’s so hard and his cock is flushed dark and Peter wants to choke on it, which, what the fuck, where the hell did that come from. 

 

He files it away and whines, because he can’t move his hips with Tony’s weight on him and he’s so close, so ready, just a few strokes and he could come undone. 

 

When Tony finally moves off of him, though, slipping out with a wince and falling down next to Peter, kissing his face and whispering praises, Steve doesn’t sit between the younger’s legs. He reaches above Peter, towards the headboard, and pulls the tie off from the sculpted curve of wood it was hooked around. 

 

It frees the younger, but not really, and there’s a length of silk hanging between his wrists. Steve pulls him up, and Peter doesn’t even register what the man is doing, making him lean forward and guiding his legs and arms around, then hauling him to his knees, until Steve has maneuvered the fabric still connecting Peter’s wrists behind him. 

 

Tony kneels behind Peter, almost pressed up against the younger, and starts to wrap the remaining length of tie around Peter’s wrists, twisting and wrapping, bringing his hands closer until they’re tied together behind his back. 

 

Peter just squirms throughout the process, barely paying attention to the state of the bindings except to wish he could jerk himself off already. He leans his head back against Tony’s shoulder and searches out the man’s mouth. 

 

Tony rewards his compliance with a kiss, slower and more relaxed than Peter feels. (Of course, Tony’s still coming down from a climax, and Peter wants to come so bad it’s crazy.)

 

“Alright, baby, bend over,” Steve softly orders. Peter looks up at him for a moment, feeling Steve’s hand wrap around the back of his neck. The artist is kneeling a little way in front of him, cock standing tall in front of him, and _oh_. 

 

_Ok. Yeah. Definitely_.

 

He lets the older man guide him down, lets Tony hold onto his wrists to keep him from falling over. He can’t grab Steve’s cock to direct it anywhere so he has to settle for pushing his forehead against the man’s stomach and finding the tip with his mouth alone. The head of Steve’s dick is hot and Peter laps at it slowly, getting adjusted to the taste of precome, reacquainting himself with all of the artist’s favorite spots. He sucks on the underside of the base and licks up, giving short licks over the blunt tip, before taking the head into his mouth. 

 

Steve groans like a wounded man and threads his fingers through Peter’s hair, holding neither tightly nor gently. His other hand reaches above where Peter can’t see, grabbing Tony by the back of the head and dragging the engineer into a kiss. 

 

“Yeah, just like that, Pete,” Steve groans. There are sucking noises not coming from Peter and he’s not sure who is giving who love bites but it’s hot as fuck, Steve’s grip in his hair, Tony’s hold on his bound wrists. 

 

He can feel Tony’s come slipping out of his overly stretched hole, trickling down his cheeks and thighs. The man behind him must notice it, too, because he runs his fingers up through the stream and pushes as much as he can back inside, two digits sliding all the way to the base. 

 

Peter moans around Steve’s cock and arches his back, taking the artist down deeper. 

 

He sets up a rhythm the way the couple taught him, pursing his lips and sucking, using his tongue to cushion and massage and taste. He takes his time working down, adding one inch and retreating three, popping off to leave kisses and licks drooling saliva. 

 

One of Steve’s hands rubs his back, palpating his shoulder, while the fingers Tony has inside him know just where to go. 

 

The older man wastes no time in kneading Peter’s prostate, forcing out desperate moans and muffled mewls from the younger. He cries and sniffles and tries to breathe through the sensations and blow job but it’s hard to do anything at all with the way Tony assaults his sweet spot. 

 

Rivers and sparks of pleasure run through his veins with icy clarity and he feels on fire. Steve guides his head, helping him bob and stay down and pull off when he can’t wrap his brain around movement. 

 

His mouth is full and he does his best to suck through the haze of everything, dropping lower until he’s almost taking Steve to the base.

 

“Deep breath, honey,” the artist warns, pulling Peter up. The younger complies, drawing in a large gulp of air and holding it as Steve pushes his head back down. 

 

He’s done this enough now not to choke or cough too much, but it still throws him for a loop, sends shots of adrenaline through him, makes him squirm in Tony’s grip when he feels Steve’s cock dip into his throat. The older man is so long, cutting off Peter’s airways. He holds him down for a few seconds, the smaller’s throat spasming around his length, before pulling him up. 

 

Peter gasps for air and takes another full breath, going down mostly of his own accord once more. Steve helps him as he starts to deep-throat the man, taking the artist all the way and sucking, licking and gargling through moans as Tony continues to abuse his prostate. 

 

Even without anything touching his cock, he was so close from having the engineer fuck him and the time between then and now did barely anything to help Peter calm down. Tony’s fingers inside him are maddening, condensed pleasure making his body writhe and twitch, unable to keep still as he can do nothing to stop the influx of stimulation. 

 

He pulls at his wrists and groans. 

 

The bite of the fabric, which he’s made tighter by tugging, will probably hurt like hell later. Right now, it’s just making him higher. Adding the burn on his wrists to the rotating sting and soothe of Steve’s hand in his hair is dizzying when combined with the sensations inside him. 

 

Tony works magic in his hole and Steve is directing Peter’s head, pulling his hips back and thrusting them forward to meet the younger’s mouth. He feels floaty and heavy, full of clouds and iron and his skin is burning hot. 

 

He’s dripping precome onto the bed sheets and arching his back in a way that must be nothing short of pornographic, moaning sinfully, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. Steve and Tony are kissing again above him, the artist giving up on bobbing Peter’s head and just holding him still, bucking into the smaller’s mouth. 

 

It’s not overly rough or fast, Peter doesn’t think he could _handle_  that, but it’s enough that even without the sounds and knowing Steve’s cues, without the artist having waited all this time, he could tell the older man is quickly nearing his climax. 

 

“Come on, sweetheart, you close?” Tony says lowly. Steve is panting against his husband’s shoulder, by the sound of it, and since Peter can’t nod or verbally answer (would he even be able to talk by this point?), he just moans in affirmative. 

 

“You can come like this, I know you can. That’s it, angel, doing so well,” the engineer continues. Peter whines pitifully at that, wishing someone would touch him, wishing he could touch himself. He was right, then. This is going to be one of those nights where they want him to come without help. 

 

It’s frustrating and kinda sexy and Peter just wants _r_ _elease_  already. 

 

He starts to push back against Tony, fucking himself on the man’s fingers, squirming for more of those toe-curling sensations. The older man obliges, adding a third finger and massaging forceful circles into Peter’s sweet spot, drawing muffled but high pitched cries out of the younger. 

 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , baby, keep doing that,” Steve groans. Peter isn’t sure if the man is talking to his husband or directly to the younger, but the effect is the same. Tony keeps working at Peter’s prostate and the smaller keeps making those sounds, sucking messily and letting the artist use his mouth. 

 

He starts to zone out after a short time of that. The pleasure and the inability to move, immobilized, the fact that he doesn’t have to actually _do_  anything but keep his mouth open and rock back onto Tony’s fingers making him drift off into a pleasant fog. It’s like his head is all full of poppies and daisies and he’s bathing in hot, rolling pleasure. 

 

His mind and body are no longer connected but he’s never felt so at home in his own skin. It’s the most cathartic trip he imagines is possible— he wants to _stay_  here. 

 

He wants to come, first and foremost, because not even dissociating from pure pleasure can dull that burning need, but for how incredibly overwhelmed with sensations he is, he’s remarkably content. 

 

It just feels _so good_  and all he has to think about is how good it feels. 

 

Steve’s breathing gets louder and more rough, and he murmurs out a slew of low, rambling praises, fucking a little faster into Peter’s throat. 

 

“So good, so good, shit, your mouth, Pete— you’re- fuck- gonna make me come, pretty boy, ohh shit, such a _good boy_ -” 

 

Peter keens at the older man’s words, tears streaming freely down his flushed face. He breathes when Steve pulls back and every muscle in his body is tense and teetering on the edge but he’s dazed enough to relax and not choke on each of the artist’s thrusts back in.

 

Steve’s cock is a fiery weight on his tongue, the thick, rounded tip rubbing his throat in a way that will be sore later, but with the slick of saliva and precome and the angle, with Steve’s experience and Peter’s foggy, conflicting tranquility— it’s just erotic now. 

 

Tony can probably feel Peter’s brain abandoning his body to the stimulation, because he releases the younger’s wrists but wraps his arm around Peter’s waist, still keeping him from face-planting into Steve’s stomach and falling over. The smaller barely registers the action except to think about how hot Tony’s arm is on his belly, how close the older man’s hand is to his straining, neglected erection. He pulls and twists fruitlessly at the tie like he has all night and trembles, thighs shaking, stomach sinking and expanding with his erratic breaths. 

 

“Are you ready, baby? You wanna come now?” Tony rasps out. Peter wonders, in a far, far corner of his mind, if the engineer is getting hard again from watching this. If the last orgasm took it out of him or if he’s getting turned on from fingering Peter while his husband fucks the younger’s mouth. He can’t gather focus enough to figure it out, though, and the engineer doesn’t have a hard one pressed against Peter’s ass or thigh, so the thought stays distant. 

 

Peter tries to make some sound of affirmation, drowned out and swallowed up by his own moaning and crying and the dick down his throat. Tony just hums in content and agreement, the hand around Peter’s waist starting to softly rub his side. 

 

Tony’s fingers move faster and more roughly, putting more pressure on Peter’s prostate, grinding the digits into the younger as he pumps them in and out. He still doesn’t touch Peter’s cock, though. 

 

It’s enough anyways. 

 

Being on cloud nine and nearing the tipping point for so long, it’s only a short matter of time before Peter creeps up to the edge, his orgasm rolling right up to and over him. 

 

A seething kind of pressure, hot and full and thick in his gut ruptures. The building pleasure explodes and courses through him. It feels like Tony’s fingers are forcing, pushing the climax right out of him, digging into sensitive nerves and milking the come from him. He paints the sheets below them and cries out around Steve’s cock, the older man thankfully pulling him off enough so that he can breathe and sob easily as his orgasm wrecks him. 

 

From tense to entirely rigid to slumping, exhausted as the wave rolls past, Peter is left quivering and pliant, limp and barely awake. The only thing keeping him from falling flat on the bed is Tony’s arm around his waist and Steve’s hands on him, one still in his hair, the other come to brace his shoulder. 

 

“Good boy, Peter, so good, there you go, just take it easy,” Tony whispers. 

 

The man keeps rubbing, touching him through it all until he’s squirming to get away from the overstimulation. Even then, the older man keeps it up a little longer, if gentle and slow now, just to see Peter writhe and whimper so sweetly a bit more. 

 

When the rush has passed and the engineer is satisfied with the teasing, he pulls out his fingers. Peter sags even more once the stimulation ends and Tony holds him up with both hands. He wipes the one that had been inside Peter, now wet with come and lube, on the already messed up bed sheets, then wraps that arm over Peter’s chest, steadying the younger the best he can. 

 

Once Steve can see that Peter is mostly down from the high, riding of aftershocks and exhausted but not incapable, he starts to move again. 

 

Few things get him closer than seeing Peter come undone, at his husband’s hands (literally) no less, and he’s ready to blow any second. 

 

Not much later and Steve is petting the younger's hair, gripping the nape of his neck and muttering out warnings, bucking into Peter’s mouth so that his balls smack the boy's chin and Peter’s nose is buried in his crotch. 

 

Tears and saliva mix with precome and Steve drops his head against Tony’s chest, both of them leaned over the smaller body between them, moaning as he chases his release. 

 

Peter does his best to swallow everything, but Steve keeps thrusting through his climax, so some of his come goes straight down the younger’s throat, and some is pooled just in his mouth, and a few trails and drops escape Peter’s lips and dribble down his chin. 

 

Steve shakes a little and moans deep and low in a way that makes Peter shiver as he climaxes. His hips stutter and his abs flex in front of Peter’s face, thighs tensing, and he spills into the smaller’s mouth before it’s over. 

 

He pulls Peter off his cock and Peter gasps for breath, choking just a little, wetting his lips messily and unable to care about how ruined he must look. Pink and glimmering with sweat all over, hair tussled from Steve’s grip, eyes puffy with tear streaks down his face, come and spit trickling from the corners of his mouth. Naked and spent and hands still bound behind his back. 

 

Until they’re not— Tony and Steve slowly helping him sit up again and lean against Steve’s firm body while Tony quickly (almost frantically) unties the wrapping. 

 

When the silk is gone, Peter somehow finds the energy to grasp at the flat muscle of the artist’s chest, burying his face against Steve’s collarbones. Tony comes up behind him, arms around his waist again, kissing his neck and shoulders, the couple supporting him completely. 

 

“Shit, baby, you did so good, you were perfect, you’re so perfect, sweetheart,” the engineer coos softly, pressing wet lips to Peter’s cheeks and temples, lapping at his lips and chin to clean away the other man's release. Steve rubs his back and holds him tight, murmuring right into his ear, calming him down. 

 

“That’s it, shh, that’s it, you’re alright, we’re all done now, honey. You’re done now, took it so well, sweet thing.” 

 

Sniffles and soft whimpers and shaky breaths almost remind Peter that he’s still crying, still trembling, but fall short in light of how completely detached his brain still is. Everything is fuzzy and later he’ll decide for sure, for certain, that this just _cannot_  be normal and there’s probably something wrong with him. 

 

_ (And the couple will argue that there’s nothing wrong with him at all, it’s simply the dramatic contrast of regular anxious Peter and submissive Peter who just gets really high on the combination of endorphins and  _ not being anxious  _ during intense sex.  _

 

_ And then Peter will stare at them and ask, mostly to himself, if he should see a doctor about this. _

 

_ The couple will laugh, and Tony will smack his ass and tell him there’s no need, that he can diagnose Peter right then with a terrible case of “needy pillow princess”— to which Peter will respond by throwing a bunched up t-shirt at the man and sassing, “And whose fault is that?”, to Steve’s great amusement.) _

 

The husbands stay there, kneeling with Peter sandwiched between them, for a little longer. Until the younger has stopped crying, though he’s still shaking, just a little. 

 

When Peter’s more or less stable, Tony starts to pull away, and no, that’s just _wrong_. 

 

He almost starts crying again, just from that, head snapping to look at the man and reach out, a coughed and broken _“wait!”_ that’s truly a testament to the throat fucking he received falling out of his mouth. Tony goes back to him in a blink, touching Peter’s shoulder and side and kissing his cheeks and nose. 

 

“I was only going to get a washcloth, lovely, I'm not leaving you, I promise, but, maybe we should just shower. Yeah?” He looks up and his husband nods, and then they’re scooting off the bed _together_  and it’s not ideal but at least both men keep contact with him. 

 

Peter wraps himself like a koala around Steve and gratefully allows the man to carry him to the bathroom, playing with the short hairs at the base of the artist’s neck with one hand and holding Tony’s hand with the other while the engineer starts the water. 

 

He’s shaky and drained completely, but since he was only fucked once tonight, he’s able to stand on his own (for once) in the shower. Steve and Tony keep their hands on him anyways, and he’d probably cry if they didn’t. 

 

Steve washes his hair for him, fingers so, _so_  gentle compared to the firm tugging from earlier, and Tony helps him wash his body. He tag teams (relatively unhelpfully but still endearingly) with each husband to clean the other, pouting when Steve says he can wash his own hair until the artist gives in and lets Peter do it. 

 

The hot water is like a warm blanket, and he can feel it soaking into his muscles and skin, washing away not only the sticky gross aftermath but the tension, all the thickly condensed worry and passion that turned to knots in his shoulders and sludge in his body being power washed out of him in the most gentle, soothing way. 

 

The couple don sweatpants and t-shirts quickly. Steve gives Peter one of Tony’s baggier hoodies, so huge that when it slips so one side of the collar is up against his neck, the other almost falls off his shoulder, and the bottom reaches all the way down to his mid thighs, all exposing hickeys and creamy skin. He pulls on boxers by himself because, well, he’s not sure there is a reason, but he decides it was an awful choice after it forces him to let go of both husbands in order to accomplish it, and immediately goes back to clinging to Tony’s arm. 

 

His knees are weak and he doesn’t have to ask the engineer to pick him up bridal style, carrying him in strong arms and bringing him to the living room, Steve’s hand tucked between the two of Peter’s. 

 

Tony sits them down on the couch because there’s still twenty minutes left on the oven’s timer. Peter’s damp hair is a comforting coolness against the warmth that’s seeping into his skin.

 

The engineer sits sideways on the sofa, one leg bent at the knee and up against the backrest, the other hanging off, Peter between the two with his back pressed up to Tony’s front, knees pulled up to his chest. The older man’s arms wrap around the slim waist and he tucks his chin over Peter’s shoulder, turning his face so he can pepper soft, chaste kisses and whisper praises right against the younger’s face. 

 

Steve sits across from them, facing them, one leg folded under himself and one off the edge of the cushions. He’s so close that he’s almost touching Peter’s feet, kind of also between Tony’s legs but not really. He reaches out once he’s settled to take Peter’s forearms and pull them out. 

 

Peter didn’t really notice the artist grabbing any bottles, but he plucks one off the coffee table that wasn’t there before, a lotion or cream that Peter doesn’t read the label for. The older man pushes up Peter’s (Tony’s) over-sized sleeves to his elbows, revealing his wrists. 

 

He was right. 

 

That’s going to hurt tomorrow, probably. Definitely. At least a little. 

 

There’s nothing overly alarming about it and right now it’s kind of a dull pain, something self inflicted and therefore easily ignored, especially with the added distance between his coherent brain and body. But there are definitely marks, red rings around his wrists maybe two inches thick, some thin lines darker and obviously having rubbed and cut into his skin a little deeper than the rest of the burn. 

 

He flushes with embarrassment, realizing how hard he must have been tugging to cause that kind of damage. 

 

Peter must also sink in on himself with the self-consciousness, because Tony holds him a little tighter and presses lips to his cheek for a long time. 

 

“It’s ok, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s kind of cute, honestly. But that looks like it hurts, and we probably underestimated how hard you could pull. Sorry, sweets. We’ll find something safer and more comfortable next time. That is, if you want a next time,” the man says softly. 

 

Peter’s nodding before he knows it, melting into the engineer’s embrace. 

 

He does want a next time. 

 

He can’t believe he was so nervous about this before. Like it wasn’t the most _obvious_  thing in the world. 

 

Steve smiles and kisses each wrist before he begins to slowly, carefully rub the cream over the marks, gently massaging the soothing lotion over silk burned skin. 

 

There wasn’t a single moment, not one second where Peter was worried he was doing something wrong tonight. 

 

(Well, after the whole negotiation beforehand, that is.)

 

Having his hands tied was a real surrender of control but also some metaphor for trust and it felt _right_. It was kind of weird and new and scary at first, but he never felt anxious, not about doing something wrong. He wasn’t _worried_  at _all_  and that is _so fucking weird_  for him— it was the greatest sensation he’s ever experienced. 

 

He liked it. 

 

He liked having his hands tied. 

 

It was frustrating as hell when he couldn’t touch one of the older men and when he wanted to touch himself, but even that was kind of satisfying in the reminder of his restraint. The reminder that he couldn’t do anything because he didn’t _have_  to do anything. 

 

Every responsibility and worry was thrown away and he just let go, to an extent he’s rarely, if ever, experienced before. 

 

It was good. 

 

It was better than good. 

 

And Peter liked it. 

 

He hums in content at the soothing cool of the cream and the expertise of Steve’s hands, snuggling further back into Tony’s body. 

 

They stay like that until Steve is finished with the lotion, and even then he just holds Peter’s hands, kissing knuckles and palms and the wrists he’d just cared for, up to Peter’s elbows and back down to his finger tips. 

 

They’re only startled out of the little bubble of aftercare when the oven goes off. And even then, Peter insists on keeping both of them close while they fill up plates of food. 

 

Neither Steve nor Tony make any kind of comment when, after a few moments of careful consideration, Peter tugs all three of their chairs ( _their chairs_ ) at the dining table next to each other. 

 

Tony puts Peter’s plate in the middle so both he and his husband can keep one of their hands on the boy; his on the chair behind him, fingers curled around the hood to brush the top of his spine, Steve’s wrapped around a lithe but muscular thigh. Steve pours three glasses of wine. Peter takes two sips and grimaces, letting the couple finish off the rest for him, much to the older men’s amusement. 

 

Tony calls him cute and Steve tells him he did good and he thanks them and reciprocates the best he can, kissing their cheeks and telling them they were right. 

 

“Of course we were,” Tony smirks. “You’re the only one surprised by that, sweetheart.” 

 

Peter frowns too big to be anything but fake and takes revenge by stealing some of the older man’s chicken. 

 

“Oh my god, you little thief. Steve, did you see that? He’s a thief!” 

 

Steve just kisses the top of Peter’s head, the younger chewing happily on his stolen prize. It’s good food. It tastes better, he thinks, because they made it, the three of them. Because he’s eating it with them, after doing what they did, and because when they’re done, he knows they’re going to go snuggle on the couch, and the older men will whisper softly to him, and he can listen to their voices and their heartbeats and the rain outside until he falls asleep. 

 

When he lifts his head, the artist is smirking at his husband’s exaggerated disapproval. They’re both watching Peter’s face, the soft smile and bright, bright eyes in their peripheral vision. 

 

“I didn’t see anything.”

 

“Lies. He’s a thief, and you’re his accomplice.” 

 

“I have never stolen anything in my life.” 

 

“What do you call my chicken, then?” 

 

“... collateral damage.” 

 

“You little-” 

 

Peter cuts him off with a quick kiss to the lips. Tony just stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, but the boy’s too cute and too vulnerable and smiling all soft and mischievous and _affectionate_  and he cracks a grin without meaning to. He grabs the front of Peter’s (his) hoodie and pulls him over a little, dropping to kiss him again, more deeply, tasting the sauce and the salt and the tang in the boy’s mouth. 

 

“Finish what you started, sweetheart,” he says quietly. Peter swallows thickly, but before Tony can do anything else, he’s stealing another piece of chicken, popping it in his mouth with a triumphant smirk. 

 

Tony just gapes at him, the angelic little minx, and Steve— 

 

(that asshole. Tony loves him to death. Tony loves—)

 

— Steve can’t stop from laughing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how many chapters I can write with unrequited feelings angst and overly detailed self indulgent porn before I actually make myself explode.
> 
> Kind of crazy how I used to be off-put by any work over 30k and now this is over 100k— and it’s only one part of a series; one of 16 other works atm. Shit.


	16. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets a lesson from two great teachers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never accuse me of having an updating schedule or posting regularly.
> 
> I wrote this over the course of an entire week and I’m craving pain au chocolat / chocolatine (but… the kind I had in Spain. Now isn’t that weird?). 
> 
> So here’s what I’m thinking: because that jump between collar full and the first chapter of pocket full leaves out so much, I’m gonna try flashback chapters that dabble in Peter’s otherwise glossed-over ‘learning experience’ between losing his virginity in collar full and the mayhem that is pocket full thus far. I just think that Peter, barely beginning to explore sex/ sexual/romantic interactions, would be really cute, and overwhelming him is a hobby of mine. 
> 
> On that note: here is some porn. Set abt a week after the events of Collar Full.
> 
> notes/warnings: oral sex (blow jobs) (with someone very inexperienced in oral sex), Peter being nervous, submissive headspace, Tony doing a lot of dirty talking.

Peter’s never had a “lesson” like this before, which makes it mildly terrifying, but it also might be his new favorite thing. 

 

It’s been a week since he, wow, since he  _ slept with _ Steve and Tony Stark-Rogers. 

 

And that’s.  _ Wow _ . That fucking  _ happened _ , huh?

 

He’s still reeling from the experience. Even when he went out for lunch and dinner and even breakfast (at least one meal every day) for the past seven days with the couple and even when they really couldn’t keep their hands off him and when they’d keep stealing kisses at every chance “because we  _ can _ now, Pete,”— Peter still can’t believe it. 

 

It’s sort of surreal, but also the most grounding thing in the world. His mind rarely wanders when he’s with the husbands. He’s always in the moment with them, whatever they’re talking about, wherever they are, whatever they’re  _ doing _ . 

 

And they do a lot, don’t they? 

 

The little kisses to his temple and crown and the corners of his mouth, the tickling butterfly kisses to his cheeks and neck that make him squirm and laugh, the way they’ll squeeze his shoulder or cup a hand over his knee or wrap their arms around his waist. 

 

The first time Tony slipped his arm between Peter’s elbow and his side, sliding down and slotting in with Peter’s hand, palm to palm, lacing their fingers— Peter almost passed the fuck out. 

 

But that’s the furthest they’ve gone (the exception of one night after dinner at the Stark-Rogers’s apartment, before Peter had to leave to do homework, when the couple had put their hands under his shirt and touched every inch of exposed skin they could and kissed him hard). They haven’t don’t anything really sexual since. (Of course, Peter appreciates any opportunity to admire and appreciate and become more familiar with the couple).

 

Not that Peter’s expecting to. He was incredibly relieved but also genuinely surprised when Steve and Tony had wanted him to come out with him on more dates and kept talking to (and _touching_ ) him. He never expected to be more than a one night stand with them in the first place, and on top of that, Steve and Tony are thirty. Thirty-year-olds probably don’t have the same over-excited libido as someone who’s only a few months past their teen years (don’t think about that, Peter). 

 

Except apparently Steve and Tony have a very high sex drive and couldn’t wait to do more sexual things with Peter, and were just waiting for a good time, because now  _ this _ is happening. 

 

This “lesson”.

 

Excluding that brief (incredible) moment when Tony had swallowed Peter’s member the night they slept together, while Steve was buried inside the younger, Peter’s never received or given oral. 

 

( _No shit_ , he’d never done anything other than sweet high school kisses until Steve and Tony.) 

 

Apparently that’s a damn crime in the couple’s book, because now they’re in the husbands’ room. Tony sitting on the edge of the bed with Peter in his lap, legs on the outsides of Tony’s and spread open, Steve kneeling in front of them, all three naked save for their boxers. 

 

Boxers which Peter wishes he wasn’t wearing for a number of reasons. Firstly because who the hell even invented these  _ confines _ , god, Peter  is so hard right now; and secondly, because the tent is so prominent and the wet spot so obvious that it would probably be less embarrassing to just be naked. 

 

The older men had guessed that he’s never had any experience with oral sex. That alone was enough to make Peter blush, but he’s pretty sure he went bright cherry red when he admitted that he had no idea of even where to start. 

 

(What kind of teenager was he? Why hadn’t he looked at this stuff more? He never thought this would be a concept in his mind but he’s honestly  _ regretting _ not watching more porn. He’s so unprepared it’s not even funny anymore.) 

 

(Did he google it, though? Yeah. Is he proud of that? Not really. Did he use incognito mode? Yeah. Does that make him feel better? Not much.) 

 

But he’s learning, now.

 

He’s getting a lesson.

 

A lesson which involves Steve kneeling between his legs and holding both of his ankles tightly (not  _ too _ tightly), pushing a light, grounding pressure in the tender dip between the his Achilles tendon and the base of his fibula. 

 

A lesson which involves Steve licking his lips and looking up at Peter, his face ( _mouth_ ) too close to Peter’s crotch to _not_  be touching him. 

 

Technically, this is Steve showing him what to do while Tony talks him through it. Like a proper learning experience.

 

Technically. 

 

What’s actually happening is that Steve is going to blow Peter while Tony dirty talks into his ear, arms tight around Peter’s midsection to hold him close and in place. 

 

Steve kisses his thighs, breathing open-mouthed over his skin, making Peter shiver slightly at the absence of heat during each inhale. He’s having issues thinking and getting oxygen into and out of his lungs in a regular manner, especially with Tony resting his chin in the crook of Peter’s neck, firm, hot chest and stomach pressed up against Peter’s back. 

 

If he focuses, Peter can feel the ridges of Tony’s abs against his own body. It’s hard to coordinate his thoughts like that with Steve in front of him, though. 

 

The artist presses soft kisses to his thighs, then down to his knees as he slowly slides his hands up, palms cupping Peter’s calves and twisting midway up his legs so he can gently push his thumbs into the divots of the younger’s knees. He mouths at Peter’s right patella, dragging his teeth over the thin, rough skin and then licking the spot, running his tongue up the smaller‘s toned thigh to his boxers, face so close to Peter’s crotch, teasingly nosing at his hip before pulling away and repeating the whole sequence with his left leg. 

 

Peter whimpers as Steve does it again, this time skipping over his boxers and kissing at Peter’s tummy, just above the hem of the fabric. He does it again, pressing his lips to Peter’s supple belly all along the waistband. As he does he strokes his hands up and down Peter’s thighs, curving behind his knees to caress the sensitive skin there and do the motion over again. 

 

Steve kisses directly over Peter’s navel, dipping his tongue in and out a few times before moving down and taking the waistband of Peter’s underwear between his teeth. Tony helps Peter lift his hips and the younger starts to hyperventilate and Steve pulls the boxers off the rest of the way with his hands, pushing Peter’s legs back to where they were before and spreading them once again. 

 

The air of the room is cold to the wet head of his length but he doesn’t even care. It feels so good to have his erection freed, hard and curved up towards his belly, tingling with want for contact. He wants to close his legs and cover himself on instinct with the way the couple are looking at him, but he doesn't really have the option.

 

Unfortunately for Peter, the teasing doesn’t end. 

 

Tony smiles against his cheek and kisses just under his eye. “Pretty boy,” the man coos. He squeezes Peter a little tighter, gives a short lick to the side of his face and pecks his cheekbone. 

 

Below them, Steve drinks in the sight of Peter, blushing and unable to sit completely still, stomach tensing and relaxing and chest hitching. 

 

Gentle kitten licks to his innermost thighs make Peter jump and squeak. Tony holds him down securely, though, chuckling lowly into Peter’s ear as they both watch Steve. 

 

The artist laps at the skin around Peter’s cock, not touching the member, gripping the younger’s thighs, thumbs almost definitely going to leave marks. Peter kind of likes that idea. 

 

He tries to keep quiet the needy sounds that want to escape his mouth, swallowing hard and closing his eyes and willing himself not to move so much. Just because he _is_  horribly inexperienced doesn’t mean he has to act like it, right? 

 

Steve kisses up to his tummy and back down again, and then _again_ , before he finally (finally) lays a kiss to the base of Peter’s shaft. 

 

Lips feel _so freaking good_  on Peter’s dick that it seems like the press of Steve’s mouth alone forces beads of precome from him. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, as much as he wants to watch, putting all of his energy into not acting like a brat ~~or the needy, inexperienced kid that he is~~. 

 

Tony has other ideas. 

 

One of the man’s muscular arms leaves Peter’s waist and drifts up his chest, stopping to tweak one of younger’s hard nipples, making Peter muffle a yelp. 

 

He can hear Tony’s smirk but he feels Steve’s, hot air on his shaft going straight to his core. 

 

“Baby, come on, none of that,” Tony begins, just as Steve decides to start kissing up Peter’s length. The artist gets to the tip, points his tongue and traces the defined ridge just before the head, then pecks his way back down. 

 

“You’re _supposed_  to be enjoying this, Pete, it’s ok. Let it out, sweetheart, we want to hear all those pretty sounds you make.” Tony says. He kisses Peter’s cheekbone and his jaw and the side of his face just next to his ear, arm continuing up until he can catch Peter’s chin in his hand. 

 

Peter shakes his head slightly, just barely, opening his mouth to stutter, “I-I, ah-” and then biting his lip harder, knuckles turning white from how hard he grips the sheets at his sides. He knows it’s a silly thought, given the position they’re in, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself or anything by being over needy or over eager (both of which he definitely is). 

 

“Ah ah ah, come on,” Tony coaxes, his thumb reaching up and dragging Peter’s lip out of his mouth, the pad of his finger just barely hooking over the edge of Peter’s teeth to pull his mouth open. “That’s it, there you go. Oh, sweet thing, you’re ok, Petey. Yeah, you’re alright.” 

 

Steve, who’s been kissing up and down Peter’s (kind of short) shaft like the devil he is, slowly adding tongue and kitten licks, starts to suck. Light suction and the faintest traces of teeth, followed by the hot flat of his tongue, wet and smooth, gliding over Peter’s length, generous with saliva. 

 

He finally licks his way up to the head and without another moment’s thought he takes the tip into his mouth. 

 

Lips parted and jaw down from Tony’s thumb, Peter can’t really do anything to hold back the desperate moan he lets out. _S_ _hit_ , Steve’s _mouth_. 

 

His head falls back against Tony and his hands fly to Steve’s shoulders. It’s so hot and so _wet_ , and Steve pops off to lick over the head a few times before going down again, just holding the head in his mouth and sucking gently. 

 

He starts to bob lower, pulling off all the way and lapping up the saliva (or maybe lathering more on) before sinking down, taking Peter just a little further each time. 

 

“Oh, that looks good, doesn’t it? Feels great, huh Petey? God, can’t believe no one’s ever done this to you before. You look so pretty with his mouth on you,” Tony rumbles. His voice is so deep and a little gravely when he says it, and Peter’s eyes open up barely for him to stare unfocused. 

 

Holy _shit_. Steve’s, Steve is, he’s, he’s got his _mouth_  around Peter’s _dick_  and obviously the younger is very aware of that fact but it’s another thing entirely to _see_  it happening. 

 

He keeps working down and Peter keeps moaning and Tony keeps whispering in his ear until the artist is down to the base. And then he _groans_  when he gets there and Peter whines and squeezes his eyes shut, hating himself for the sound but it just feels _so good_ , that wetness and heat such a blissfully dirty sensation, the pleasure something he can feel inside him, in his belly and the bottom of his spine. 

 

His body fully twitches and squirms in want but he shudders at his own sounds and wishes Tony would take his hand out of his mouth, wanting to close it and hold his breath. 

 

“That’s good, you’re doing good, Peter. Don’t try to hold back, honey.” Tony counters his thoughts like some kind of psychic. “Bet Steve liked that too, hm?” 

 

The artist answers by groaning again, sucking at Peter’s length in a way that would have made him come, barely any stimulation at all, had he been fourteen, and it draws that whining sound from the younger once more. 

 

Tony smiles against his face and uses the hand around his jaw to turn his head. The man pulls his finger out of Peter’s mouth just so he can slot their lips together, taking Peter’s between his and nipping it, sliding his tongue into the younger’s mouth in that overwhelming way he hasn’t yet learned to keep up with. 

 

Peter whimpers into the kiss, probably bruising Steve’s shoulders at this point but incapable of loosening his grip, tummy caving in and thighs shaking under Steve’s hands. 

 

The artist’s tongue rubs his shaft flatly and points, a pressure that traces the prominent vein, mouth and throat massaging Peter’s cock, sucking just enough not to be too messy but not enough to send him over the edge. 

 

The engineer breaks the kiss and licks Peter’s lips, his hand dropping down the younger’s chest and his other arm leaving the slim waist, meeting at Peter’s sternum and caressing the length of his torso. 

 

“You feel good, baby? You like it? God, you’re so pretty, such a pretty little thing. Fuck, Steve looks hot with your little cock in his mouth, doesn’t he?” Tony groans. His fingers find Peter’s chest, and he starts to rub his thumbs over the swollen pink buds there, making the younger outright keen. 

 

“So hot, babe, Steve, holy _shit_.” Tony keeps going, rubbing Peter’s nipples, slowly, lightly, until the younger feels like they’re going to go numb, and Tony (who is definitely a mind reader, Peter knows now) picks that moment to pinch, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers and making Peter gasp, arching his back into the sensation. 

 

His hips buck as he moves and Steve is completely unfazed, humming around Peter’s length as he starts to bob his head up and down, sucking harder, his mouth getting tighter and _fuck_. 

 

Peter’s trying, barely now, to hold back his body’s reactions, still wishing he was in more control of himself, more composed, wishing he was more alluring and less needy— trying not to seem like he falls apart entirely at the first kiss (like he already has). It’s difficult, though, and he can feel himself slipping. 

 

He knows he’s not supposed to fight that. He knows this is what happened last time and it was  _ good  _ last time, but he feels like he’s supposed to offer them more than this. 

 

But those thoughts are hard to keep track of when he feels so good. 

 

The more Steve teases him and then makes him feel sososogood and then teases him again, the more he listens to Tony and feels the man’s voice against his back, the heat, the grips they have on him, the way they’re both touching him— the more his coherent brain is sent further and further away. With every second he’s wondering why he was so worried about floating off in the first place. It feels fucking _great_. 

 

“You’re so cute when you’re enjoying yourself, Pete,” Tony rasps out. He sounds... affected, and that’s right about when Peter consciously realizes the hardness under him, Tony’s erection digging into his ass. The man pinches the nubs between his fingers again and Peter has the same response, back bowing, a loud gasp leaving his mouth and he tries not to choke on his own spit. 

 

The movement pushes him harder into Tony and the only thing between his entrance and Tony’s cock is the older man’s underwear, and  _ that’s _ its own special kind of torment. 

 

Peter’s brain goes out the window when one of Steve’s hands leaves his thigh to trace the line down the middle of his ass, the pad of the man’s index finger ghosting over his hole and pressing down on the sensitive spot behind his sack before fondling his balls, other hand squeezing tighter around Peter’s thigh. 

 

It feels  _ incredible  _ and Peter’s never had something so all-encompassing, so tight and  _ wet  _ and hot on him. He’d never had anything other than his own hand until a week ago, and this, this is like all of heaven in one concentrated sensation. 

 

He can feel the pleasure filling up inside him, little shots from his shaft all the way to the pit of his stomach, a rolling, continuous thing that’s almost soothing, bubbling up in his belly.

 

When Steve pulls almost all the way off, so his mouth is only wrapped around Peter’s tip, bottom lip a firm pressure at Peter’s frenulum, the younger almost whines, fearing the artist will pop off completely. Instead, Steve covers what he no longer has down his throat with the hand that had been on Peter’s thigh, encasing wetness and warmth that threatened to escape in the cool air of the room. 

 

And then he sucks  _ hard _ , hollowing his cheeks and pushing the pointed tip of his tongue against Peter’s slit, squeezing his hands, and Peter cries out. 

 

“Go on, sweet thing, it’s ok, you can come.” Tony whispers. Peter kisses the last of his dwindling coherency goodbye and it’s barely a few seconds of hyperventilating later when he climaxes. 

 

There’s that familiar rush but it’s  _ more _ now, more intense, faster and longer lasting, and it doesn’t so much just happen as he feels every moment of it cresting and exploding and flooding his body. Electricity in his tummy and rippling through his thighs, up his spine, and his back arches into a perfect curve, a long, breathy, effeminate moan spilling out. It’s so much wetter than any orgasm he’s felt before, and because it’s only the head held behind Steve’s lips, Peter’s come fills up the man’s mouth and surrounds his tip.

 

He trembles through it all, barely noticing how Tony’s arms leave his chest to wrap around his middle and hold him against the older man, pulling him onto the engineer's erection as he rides out the orgasm. 

 

Steve draws every last ounce of pleasure he can from Peter, hand stroking slightly and squeezing, sucking until the high fades and the younger is gasping in oversensitivity. It’s only once he’s done that the artist pulls off completely, and Peter opens teary (oh. tears.) eyes, breathing hard and unsteady, little hiccups flitting from his chest as he blinks, wetting and biting his lip. 

 

The artist looks up at him, cheeks flushed and lips red and  _ smirking  _ and Peter can’t find it within himself to feel anything but content. He smiles gently down at the man and pries his own fingers from Steve’s shoulders, hoping he didn’t actually bruise the man. 

 

Peter feels kind of dizzy and light, but good. He’s not entirely sure he’s even here anymore, but he feels good, melting into the comforting warmth of Tony’s chest regardless of how the man grinds faintly up against him. 

 

Steve stands up slowly, bracing himself on Tony’s leg for a moment. He kisses Peter without a second of rest but does so softly, and the younger can taste something kind of sweet and kind of sour on the artist’s tongue but it doesn’t even register. Steve breaks their kiss and reaches a hand to wrap behind Tony’s neck, pulling the other man forward a little and kissing him more deeply, wet and fast and Peter can’t really think but they move so fluidly together, keeping up, like some perfectly matched race. 

 

They’re really good at kissing. Peter kind of envies them. 

 

He wipes at his face until he’s pretty sure the gleam in his eyes has dried and turns, looking up at Steve when the man finally parts his kiss with his husband. The artist looks down at him, corners of his mouth twitching up, and Peter blushes under the gaze. 

 

“Th-that, mmh, that felt r-really good, Steve… um, thank you,”  he whispers, voice cracking in a way that would have mortified him if he wasn’t so blissed out right now, and instead just makes him blush a little more pink. 

 

Steve doesn’t respond for a few moments. He stares at Peter with a completely blank expression for a couple seconds, until Peter’s brows start to furrow and he frowns a little, suddenly nervous that he’s disappointed or annoyed Steve, and that thought alone is enough to get his eyes watering. 

 

But then Steve practically lunges at him, groaning like a wounded man, a hand flying out and wrapping around the back of Peter’s head so he doesn’t startle away from the aggressive advance, when the artist is suddenly kissing him _hard_. His tongue all but pistons into Peter’s mouth, frantically tasting every soft patch of flesh and running along Peter’s own tongue, clashing hard but nipping gently at Peter’s bottom lip. 

 

Peter yelps in surprise and he’s completely outmatched in the kiss (though it doesn’t seem like Steve minds), but that doesn’t stop him from leaning in and cupping Steve’s face with one hand once he realizes that the artist isn’t upset with him. Steve’s moaning into Peter’s mouth, desperate and almost pained, and he pulls away only to kiss the younger again, doing the same thing before breaking apart to breathe. 

 

Tony’s hands are still around Peter’s waist and they tighten on his hips, the engineer kissing Steve’s shoulder and smirking all devilishly. 

 

“God, you can’t just say that, Pete, looking so pretty and sweet, _shit_. You’re fucking precious, baby,” Steve groans, and he kisses Peter’s cheeks and forehead and his lips again before he finally gives the smaller space. 

 

Tony’s still grinning when he pecks Peter’s cheek, nosing at the younger’s temple, and hums. 

 

“You should put your lesson to good use, right? I’m sure Steve would be happy to let you practice on him.” The engineer muses. Steve’s pupils seem to dilate more and he swallows. Peter watches the motion, blushing furiously at Tony’s words, but nods. 

 

Yeah. That sounds like a great idea. Peter would very much like to do that, please. 

 

He climbs (surprisingly) gracefully off of Tony’s lap. At the same time, Steve backs up to give him room and sits down on the bed next to Tony, shucking off his boxers and tossing them to the side with a coordination and smoothness that the younger can only hope to some day replicate. His eyes never leave Peter. 

 

The smaller moves to stand in front of Steve and lowers himself down to the floor, carpet not the kindest to his knees but he doesn’t really mind when he looks up at Steve (for confirmation, for guidance) and the man’s breath catches. 

 

“Alright, pretty boy, go ahead. Just try to do what felt good for you. Remember what we talked about,” he says. His voice is wrecked and he runs one hand through Peter’s hair. The grip is gentle, not tight or pulling, on the chocolate waves and Peter hums in conformation, leaning into the touch. 

 

Tentatively, he raises his hands and rests them on Steve’s thighs. The hair of the man’s legs is surprisingly soft and his skin is burning hot, despite the cold room, and Peter starts with lightly rubbing up and down. He tries to keep his touch light and firm to repeat what the artist had done to him.

 

Steve’s cock is long and thick (yeah, longer and thicker than Tony, that was a correct observation, holy fuck, and a lot more so than Peter’s, significantly more than Peter’s,  _ jesus  _ ), and it’s intimidating to think of trying to fit it in his mouth. He swallows down the nerves, though, at the soothing pressure of the man’s hand in his hair, leaving his whole body buzzing faintly. The heat radiating off of Steve is like a siren call, warming him up, the man’s body radiating its own gravitational pull that Peter is helpless to follow.

 

He leans forward to kiss the older man’s stomach, tongue sneaking out and giving a short lick to the skin of the man’s ab muscles, peppering the kisses side to side and down. He presses his lips to Steve’s stomach on either side of his length, not touching the man’s cock yet. 

 

“That’s good, sweetheart, gotta tease a little. Just like that,” Tony says. The approval calms Peter even more, and gives him the courage to go further, licking at Steve’s balls. 

 

The artist groans through his teeth and his other hand comes up to pet Peter’s cheek, thumb on his face and fingers threading into the younger’s hair along with the first. His thighs close just slightly, but he holds back from the instinct to shut them.

 

Peter isn’t sure what he was expecting but it sort of just smells, humid? Just like air, but heavier, and he’s pretty sure that’s only because he’s suddenly very close to Steve’s body, a bit like stuffing his entire face in the crook of the man’s neck (without the cologne, of course). (And obviously it wouldn’t be awful— this is Steve and Tony. They’re hygienic and have full-time occupations and actually enjoy eating cooked spinach like the legitimate adults that they are.)

 

At his first cautious lick, it tastes like… skin. Peter isn’t sure what he thought it would be like, but Steve’s body tastes a little like sweat and a little like something more bitter, and then skin, faint and almost nothing on his tongue. 

 

It’s not bad. Peter laps more, lathering his saliva like the artist had, but trying not to let any drip away. (How did Steve do that? Messy but not sloppy? What?)

 

He moves up to the base of the man’s shaft, planting kisses and little licks, hands sliding up to Steve’s inner thighs, balancing himself. 

 

Steve’s fingers massage his scalp and make Peter hum softly, a sound that must reverberate through his lips, because the artist moans quietly and tightens his grip a little. 

 

The older man starts to guide Peter’s head up, slowly leading him to the tip of his cock. Peter stares at it, the daunting thing, for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and moving to kiss it. A few pecks to the underside of the head, pressure of his tongue against the man’s glands, and then he licks through the drops of precome. 

 

It’s bitter and Peter kind of wants to cringe at the weird, not-horrible-but-not-exactly-pleasant taste, but he doesn’t, and licks again to get another test of it. It’s not as bad as that wiki how page had said, and later Peter will imagine that the longer this arrangement lasts, the more used to it he’ll get, but right now his cloudy brain just takes it in stride. 

 

Steve pets his hair and breathes mildly unsteady, heavy breaths. He gulps audibly and it’s sort of the hottest thing ever. 

 

“Go for it, sweetheart.” Tony encourages. Peter looks up at the two men, eyes wide and expression open, then looks back to Steve’s dick. He steels the remnants of his nerves and opens his mouth. 

 

And then he opens it wider, and wider, and a little bit wider still before it’s actually enough for him to cover his teeth (he recalls that little note) with his lips and take the tip of the artist’s cock into his mouth. If Steve felt big inside him, he’s fucking huge in Peter’s mouth. His jaw almost instantly starts to ache from how far open he has to part his lips, which he really must have underestimated, but he kind of… likes it. 

 

He has to shift to get a better angle and doesn’t even think before taking one of his hands off of Steve’s thighs and grabbing the base of the man’s dick. But once he has the position, he pushes his head down, sucking the older man’s tip entirely into his mouth. He barely gets past the length of the head before his throat starts to buzz and he has to pull back or risk gagging. Which is, well, kind of frustrating, if Peter’s honest. Especially considering how Tony and Steve both were able to take him down entirely. 

 

Granted, Peter is a lot smaller than they are and they have quite a bit more experience. But still. 

 

He tries again and vastly overestimates how quickly he can adjust to something that big in his mouth, because he’s only three inches or so down and he gags, coughing and pulling off in a bodily panic when the tip touches the back of his throat. It brings burning tears to his eyes and saliva overflows his mouth to smear his lips and drip down his chin. 

 

“It’s alright. Don’t try to take it all, baby, only go down as far as you can handle. This is your first time, Pete, don’t push yourself. Use that hand on what you can’t reach,” Steve soothes, hushing him as he coughs it out and running all his fingers through the younger’s hair. 

 

Peter clears his throat and swallows roughly. He nods to the suggestion, and yeah, that sounds like a way better plan. 

 

He feels so fucking floaty, it’s  _ great _ . 

 

He licks the tip, which is dribbling a combination of precome and Peter’s spit, then takes it into his mouth once more. He only goes as far as he’s comfortable and moves slowly so not to overwhelm himself. 

 

Peter is familiar with having the smooth, firm but not actually  _ hard _ length of a cock in his hand (and despite the fact that he’s performing oral sex and barely lucid, thinking about his history with masturbation makes him blush a little brighter). However he is _not_ at all familiar with having that taut, almost silky skin, that heavy member, in his  _ mouth _ . 

 

Regardless of how much he’s salivating (a lot, it’s a lot, is it supposed to be this much?) he can feel and taste the precome on Steve’s tip. It’s a weight in his mouth, large and thick and warm, growing hotter with every second. He tries not to drool too much but it’s basically inevitable and he can feel it pooling around his hand. 

 

For a moment he almost forgets what he’s doing. He almost forgets that he’s in the middle of pleasuring Steve and just starts to explore the completely foreign sensations for himself, sucking lightly, then a little harder, a little softer, tightening and pursing his lips (not too much), tongue rubbing up and down what he has inside his mouth. It’s kind of weird to try and move his tongue around but he manages, exploring the head of Steve’s cock. 

 

It’s only after a particularly hard suck and flicking his tongue against the underside ridge of Steve’s tip that he remembers exactly where he is, because the man’s hips jerk and he moans lowly. Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t gag when the artist bucks forward, but the action does make him aware of how his mouth is a pool of saliva and precome. 

 

He tries to swallow some of it down, but he doesn’t pull off at all to do so and chokes himself slightly in the attempt, his throat convulsing around the cock edging so close to it. Steve moans again at that, louder, and Peter looks up to see the man’s head tipped back but still looking down, Tony mouthing at his neck. 

 

Peter tries it again. On purpose, this time, he swallows around the tip, and Steve pants. 

 

“Doing so good, baby, you’re doin’ so well,” he gasps. Peter does his best to smile around the mouthful and makes eye contact with the artist as he starts to bob his head. Steve practically  _ whines  _ at that, the sound low but unmistakably wanton, and his hands move with Peter’s head, encouraging the younger a little lower than he’d aimed for and pulling him off a little more than Peter’d planned. 

 

Peter takes it. He thinks he’s not half bad at that, just taking it, and Tony seems to agree, watching him like a hawk when he speaks. 

 

“Fuck, Peter, you take it so well. You’re perfect.”

 

The smaller keens with pride at that and the sound makes Steve groan, the thigh Peter’s still gripping shaking slightly, hard muscle tensed. 

 

He moves his head with Steve’s guidance and sucks while he goes, laving his tongue all over everything in his mouth. His brain hasn’t really registered anything else until Tony’s hand comes down and covers the one Peter has at the base of Steve’s shaft, squeezing over Peter’s grip and slowly directing him to pump. 

 

The strokes are short, not getting in the way of his mouth, but the saliva that was soaking his hand is smeared and lathered easily, slicking the way, still dribbling steady down, making Peter’s (and now Tony’s, too) hand shiny. 

 

Tony guides him down to Steve’s balls and up again, his fingers threading between Peter’s and palm pressed firmly to the younger’s skin to help him, show him just where and how and how tight or loose to fondle and stroke, when to be fast and where to be slow to draw heavy breaths and the most satisfying deep moans from Steve. 

 

After a short while Peter closes his eyes, breathing carefully through his nose and losing focus. He lets the older men walk him through it, relieving him of any responsibility. It’s so new and weird and good. Peter likes it. He likes it a lot, actually. The sensations are strange to him but not unpleasant at all, and the way his throat closes up and he almost gags when he goes down too far, threatening his air supply, punching tears out of his eyes with each sudden tension, doesn’t actually feel bad. 

 

It’s a little alarming for the first few minutes, but even when his body doesn’t adjust and has the same reaction every time, the overall slow and steady pace gets him used to the feeling. He leans forward a little more, slumping, the curve of his back relaxing a bit as he starts to loll into that gravitational pull. 

 

His jaw aches and saliva leaks from his lips and his nose burns a little every time his throat is almost closed off, but he just lets it happen. He goes with the flow of it, the way the husbands help him move, blowing Steve and listening to the man moan, whimpering at every comment Tony makes about the picture they make.

 

“Steve, babe, you look like you’re in fucking heaven, baby. Shit, you two are such a sight. This is a fucking vision. Maybe I’m dreaming. I’ve definitely had this dream before,” Tony groans, laughing a little at the end, and Peter doesn’t see the way the engineer nips Steve’s earlobe or the way the artist turns his head to bite Tony’s lip, but he feels the man’s fingers tensing in his hair. 

 

“God, Petey, you're so pretty with his cock in your mouth, you’re doing so well, baby, it’s like you were fucking  _ made  _ for this,” Tony continues. His hand tightens around Peter’s and helps him to stroke Steve a little faster, and maybe in coordination or response, Steve starts to bob Peter’s head a little faster, too. 

 

Peter might be new to this and he might have less than three percent of his brain online, but he knows the signs. He goes a faster and a bit deeper down than Steve was already pushing him, and it’s not entirely in his comfort zone anymore but it’s hard to care with the reactions he’s getting. 

 

The way Steve moans at every sound and every shift, every little flick of Peter’s tongue, tensing when Peter sucks more and melting when the younger flattens his tongue along everything in his mouth, shuddering when Peter hums in content and groaning when Tony has Peter stroke his balls. 

 

And then Peter looks up, hazelnut eyes gleaming and eyelashes clumped with wetness, tears streaking down his strawberry flushed cheeks, lips swollen and red and sheening and Steve’s  _ cock _ in his  _ mouth _ , a hand on the rest, and Steve meets his eyes for a moment and groans out a long “fuuuuck”. His hips jolt up and he holds Peter’s head down, fucking shortly into the smaller’s mouth. Peter does his best to relax his throat and breathe steady but he still chokes anyways, and then Steve is coming. 

 

He’s still pumping those short thrusts in and out, so a lot of it goes straight down Peter’s throat (which is the craziest sensation ever), but he gets most of it in his mouth. It tastes kind of weird, not really as bitter as he was expecting (...wiki how, maybe, was not the best choice), but it is salty, and there’s something a little sweet to it, too? A kind of metallic, rubbery taste, maybe, that all sort of cancels out into something strange but not really offensive. It’s a lot thicker than the precome, also, almost like jelly but more fluid. 

 

The point is that there’s quite a lot of it in Peter’s already limited mouth space, with Steve’s cock still inside and the pre-existing collection of saliva and precome, and some of it leaks out of his mouth, ivory down the man’s shaft and onto Peter and Tony’s hands, which continue moving to milk Steve’s orgasm until his body relaxes. 

 

When it’s over, the artist slowly pulls out, his hands falling down to cup Peter’s jaw and guide the younger’s head away. Peter leans back and drops the hand that had been on Steve’s shaft but keeps the one on his thigh, steadying. He doesn’t move for a moment, and then decides to swallow it. Mostly because that’s what Steve and Tony both did. 

 

As soon as his mouth is empty again, he’s gasping, panting for breath. Steve is trembling just a little and he reaches down, grabbing Peter by the biceps and pulling him up. The artist is gentle but Peter is basically a rag doll at this point, so as he’s heaved up, he leans with his feet on the floor and knees half on the edge of the bed, collapsing forward into Steve’s embrace. 

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean to get rough there,” Steve hushes, rubbing Peter’s back and holding him firmly around the waist. There’s a third hand on his shoulder and a forth running through his hair, which Peter realizes must be Tony, who he opens his blurry eyes to see smiling softly (if a little, pinched? Is Tony alright?) at him. 

 

Peter doesn’t think that was very rough at all. Surprising, yeah, but he’s an amateur at best— that couldn’t have been very rough in reality. He tries to shake his head and reassure Steve that he’s fine, but his neck will barely cooperate and his voice is apparently nonfunctional at the moment. 

 

He swallows a few times and breathes deeply as the artist whispers, “Shh, pretty, you did so well, you were so good, lovely, you perfect little thing,” working his up his throat to be able to weakly mumble:

 

“‘s ok, ‘m good.”

 

Steve lets out a sharp breath like relief and Peter hopes, dizzy and dazed, that the man isn’t actually guilty. Peter feels fine. Better than fine, actually. He’s exhausted and his face kind of hurts but he feels  _ great _ . 

 

They pull apart after a while, Peter still leaning entirely on the artist and breathing heavy, face turned away so he can look at Tony while resting his head on Steve’s firm chest. 

 

“How did it feel?” The engineer prompts, petting Peter’s cheeks. He looks kind and soft but still a little, what is that, tense? He looks tense. Peter doesn’t want him to be tense, he wants him to be good. 

 

“H-How is it supposed to feel?” The younger asks. He hopes the answer is positive. Was that supposed to be neutral? He can’t imagine  _ bad _ , but, wait, was Peter not supposed to like that as much as he did? Is he weird? Are they going to be weirded out if he says he liked that? 

 

“Well, _fun_ , really, but if you don’t like it then-” Tony begins sheepishly, but Peter cuts him off, shaking his head and straightening a little with a vigor he didn’t know he still had the energy for. 

 

“I liked it,” he says, offering a sleepy, happy smile. The couple both sigh a little, and then Tony looks at him, watches him for a second, eyes going half lidded. The hand on Peter’s cheek sneaks lower, running over Peter’s chin and then up to his lips, pushing into his mouth again, and Peter tastes more come on the man’s finger. 

 

Peter sucks the digit in on instinct and Tony swallows, and—  _ oh _ . Right. That’s what that tension is in Tony’s face. He’s still hard. Really, really hard in his boxers, Peter’s gaze flits down to see. 

 

“How does it taste?” Tony asks. His eyes are trained on where his thumb is in Peter’s mouth. “You like it?” 

 

Peter swallows and the engineer removes the digit, a string of saliva snapping between the pad of his finger and Peter’s lip. 

 

“‘s kinda weird. Not bad, though,” he says, and he must make a face when he speaks because Tony and Steve both chuckle softly, despite the hardness in Tony’s briefs. 

 

“You’re so sweet,” Steve coos, kissing Peter’s cheeks and jawline. The artist looks at Tony, and Tony looks back at his husband, and they seem to stare at each other for a while and something grows between them, because the room suddenly feels a lot heavier again when Steve whispers into Peter’s ear. 

 

“Would you like to help him out with that?” He prompts. Peter looks down to the bulge behind dark fabric again and doesn’t take his eyes off it when he nods. He pushes slowly out of Steve’s arms, balancing himself as he takes a few steps to the side. 

 

Peter moves in front of Tony, the older man spreading his legs and unzipping his pants, and the younger puts his hands on Tony’s knees to steady himself. He looks from the length the engineer pulls out, tip gleaming and flushed, to the man’s face, eyes half open and mouth parted, and with a long, deep breath, his chest hitching in renewed anticipation— Peter slowly sinks to his knees again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot more Pocket Full chapters planned (see: the psa about flashback chapters up top), but I'm kinda debating putting this on a loose hiatus until the third fic of this series (SMYL) is done. I don't know. (@ myself: it’s not like I ever fucking update anyways.)(it’s been a /month/ I’m /sorry/.) We'll have to see what my capricious muse decides. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, wonderful people, I hope you liked it <3
> 
>  
> 
> (I swear I never mean for my notes to get so long it just /happens/ man, I have a lot of commentary I guess)

**Author's Note:**

> whoops i finally made a tumblr. wanna talk about Peter Parker? @ bitter-lemon-water


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